Only Half A Monster
by Lotta Devon
Summary: Voldemort is dead. But the afterlife is an extraordinary thing, and he is transported to another world. But what will happen when a 19 year old Tom Riddle and a cruel, sadistic Dark Lord share the same body?
1. Transformation, Realisation, Remorse

This is my first ever fanfiction, so be nice to me. I use elpsises to much, just to warn you. (Elipsesesesses? these ...) And apparently I made up the word 'detestful'. Oh well.

Please enjoy, and review ^-^ tell me if I've made any stupid spelling or grammar mistakes. Thanks!

I do not own Harry Potter, that honor goes to the wonderful J K Rowling.

**Chapter 1: ****Transformation, Realisation, Remorse**

"_It had the form of a small, naked child, curled on the ground, its skin raw and rough, flayed-looking, and it lay shuddering under a seat where it had been left, unwanted, stuffed out of sight, struggling for breath._

_He was afraid of it. Small and fragile and wounded though it was, he did not want to approach it. Nevertheless, he drew slowly nearer, ready to jump back at any moment. Soon he stood near enough to touch it. He felt like a coward. He ought to comfort it, but it repulsed him._

'_You cannot help'."_

_~ JK Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Chapter Thirty-five_

Dumbledore went and sat on the chair next to the thing. It lay there, flailing its puny limbs, crying out miserably. He looked down on it, his blue eyes filled with pity. As revolting as it was, one could not help but want to raise it up, hold it close, stop its cries, soothe it. Dumbledore looked up to his right where a large, ornate clock hung from a pillar. Yet this clock bore no ordinary numbers. Seventeen strange symbols in some unknown language circled it, and the one hand was pointing directly downwards. He sighed and looked back at the creature. From then on he did not move his gaze, just sat patiently, his long fingertips touching.

Over time – though whether it was minutes, hours or even days was impossible to tell – the creature slowly began to change. Its chaffed, red skin pulsated, the fragile bones beneath it stretching and twisting. It elongated into a much more human form, colour changing from crimson to a pale pink, almost an albino white. Dark hair sprouted from the thing's skull, reaching down to the nape of its neck, growing like ivy would creep upon a tree. As this process occurred, the creature began to scream; blood-curdling, agonising screams. It twisted and writhed, clenching its bony fingers, arching its back, showing every rib in its torso. It began to claw at its face. And what a beautiful face it was – a brutal, almost fierce beauty, but beautiful all the same. High cheekbones, curved, thin lips and oval eyes that were pale blue, or perhaps a misty grey, or maybe even violet. Dumbledore viewed this intently, both fascinated and nauseated.

Suddenly, the hand of the clock reached the symbol where the twelve would have been and a chime resonated throughout the place, causing almost a shimmer in the air. At once, the creature stopped its wailing and thrashing and lay still. The transformation was complete. It was a man.

The man looked up, his face fearful. He did not notice Dumbledore, and crawled slowly to his hands and knees, looking round for something to cover his naked body. Finding some plain black robes neatly folded under a chair, he stood shakily to his feet, flexing his muscles warily, as if unused to using his body. He slipped the robes over his shoulders then looked all about himself, his expression cautious. His pearly eyes found Dumbledore and he recoiled in horror. The emotions in his face changed rapidly from alarm, to anger, to confusion, then the same all over again. He raised one thin, white arm, the black robe hanging off it like a silky waterfall, and pointed his finger.

"You!"

"Welcome, Tom," Dumbledore said, smiling kindly, spreading his arms wide.

The man – Tom – stuttered wildly, and seemed as if torn between leaping at Dumbledore and fleeing. Slowly, he seemed to sink a little, his shoulders slumping, his hands dropping to his sides. He looked so very bewildered and scared and... alone. They were emotions Dumbledore had not seen in this man for a very long time.

"How are you feeling?" he asked pleasantly.

"I... what... you..." Tom said, stammering wildly, "Where am I?"

"I have absolutely no idea."

The young man ran his eyes around the room, but did not look away from Dumbledore for long.

"Am I... dead?" he asked, and his voice rose in a high panic.

He found his answer in the old man's piercing eyes, and stared, gaping in utter shcok and disbelief.

"But I cannot die!" he cried, raising his trembling hands, clutching at his face, "My Horcruxes..."

"Have all been destroyed, Tom," Dumbledore finished, "I can only assume that Harry has killed the very last bit of you by now, which is why you are here."

"Then I have..." he took his hands away from his face and stared at them, gulping, "I have failed!"

"Failed what, exactly? If you were to ask my humble opinion I would say you failed many years ago, Tom. Many years ago when you made the choice to become what you are."

"I would have been the most powerful wizard ever," he said defiantly, sounding childish.

"Powerful? In some ways: yes. You would have had great ability, a huge talent in sorcery. You would have had many servants. You would have had control over the world. But you would not have had the most important things, Tom."

He looked up at Dumbledore sharply, confusion etched into his features. The old professor rose to his feet and stared gravely at him.

"You would not have had family and friends. You would not have known how it felt to care for and be cared for. You would never have experienced loyalty and companionship. You would never have had love and happiness."

"Love and happiness!" Tom spat furiously, "I do not need love and happiness. Weak, human feelings."

"Are you not human, Tom?"

He faltered at the question, then became enraged once more, a snarl plastered on his face, pale eyes flashing. He grabbed a chair from beside him and hurled it, closely followed by another, but as they came within a few inches of Dumbledore they simply slowed and drifted to the side. He took a bench and hoisted it above his head.

"You foolish old man," he sneered, "Human? _Human_? I am Lord Voldemort! The Darkest of Lords!"

Dumbledore did not so much as flinch as the bench sailed towards him then joined the others on the floor. As Voldemort reached around for another item to throw, he caught site of something that had suddenly appeared by him. It was a grey orb, seemingly made of mist, and it hovered in mid-air, throbbing. Shadows flickered within it, and it was emitting a mournful hum. The thing captivated Tom immediately, and he stared at it, riveted, frozen to the spot. He seemed terrified of it, like it had some kind of tormenting hold upon him.

"What is this?" he snapped breathlessly.

He reached out a trembling hand towards the sphere; all his anger had suddenly drained away. As the tips of his fingers met it, it quivered, and smoky tendrils began to wrap around his fingers, curling about his hand, inching slowly up his arm.

"What?" he cried, his eyes wide with fear, "What's happening?"

He watched in horror as whatever it was travelled all the way up to his shoulder, across his chest, and began to sink into the place where his heart was. As it did so the humming increased to a high-pitched, piercing shriek. He scrabbled at his chest trying to rip the _thing_ from himself. But his fingers passed through the cloudy substance, and soon it had disappeared beneath his pale skin.

"What is this?" he demanded, glaring at Dumbledore, "What is happening?"

"That, Tom," he said sombrely, "Was the memories of every person you've ever killed or tortured, and the grief and pain of their families and friends."

Tom clutched at his chest, trembling, a wild panic in his eyes. He crashed to his knees, like some giant weight was forcing him down, and his eyes darted madly from side to side as if watching a scene visible only to him. Tears began to pour down his cheeks, and his shoulders heaved with sobs.

"What is this?" he cried in horror. He covered his dripping face with his hands and began to rock backwards and forwards. A gargling scream rose from his throat and ripped its way violently from his mouth, echoing about the vast hall, every last syllable reverberating off the walls and ceiling. He collapsed to the ground and curled up into a ball, sobbing and shuddering madly. Dumbledore gazed at him sadly.

After a while, Tom quietened and slowly raised his head to look at Dumbledore. He looked so very scared and pathetic.

"What is this?" he whimpered.

He sounded like a small child, lost and alone.

"You feel regretful now Tom, don't you?" he replied in a low voice, "You finally understand some of what your victims felt. And it hurts, doesn't it? It's painful, isn't it?"

"Why am I feeling this?" he said in a strangled whisper, "I am V-Voldemort. I do not _feel_ things like this."

"When you tried to kill Harry Potter all those years ago in Godric's Hollow," Dumbledore said, "Part of your soul attached itself to his, creating another Horcrux. But the same way that part of you got into him, a little of Harry got into you as well. Something so very human, Tom. Something that had felt sorrow, regret, grief and pain like you are feeling now. And that is what is left of you – here, now. The part of you that knows these 'weak, human feelings'. The part of you that has been so very close to loyalty and friendship and compassion and love and happiness. But you've never quite had them, have you, Tom? Have you ever felt happiness, Tom?"

"I do not need..." he hissed, "I do not need... happiness."

But he faltered and did not seem so sure.

"Have you ever felt love?" Dumbledore continued, "You've seen it, haven't you? As you fumed away inside Harry's soul, you saw all the love his friends had for him. You saw all the love and affection that he returned. You saw its power, its strength, its beauty. You were so very close to it. But you've never felt it, have you Tom?"

Voldemort gazed down at his clenched fists, his brow furrowed, his mouth forming shapes wordlessly.

"There is nothing you can hide here, Tom. Stop lying to yourself."

He slowly uncurled from the foetal position he had held on the floor, and raised himself 'til he was sitting there, shoulders slumped, arms hanging limply at his sides.

"I have never... never... no."

His voice was quiet and small, and it was as if he had forgotten Dumbledore's presence and was speaking to himself. He sounded... sad. Slowly, shivering, he raised one thin, white hand to touch his bare chest. Touch the place where, somewhere under his skin, a fist-sized muscle steadily pumped blood through his arteries and veins, crimson ribbons twisting throughout his trembling body. That muscle constantly pounding away, was it incapable of experiencing peace, contentment and warmth? That blood – rich source of life as it was – continually flowing around every bone, muscle and organ, was it somehow infected with resentment, misery and bitterness?

All his life he had felt negative emotions coursing through him. He was polluted by them. Certainly, he had felt some happiness when he'd achieved his plans. But it had only been momentary. A fleeting feeling of joy, quickly replaced by dissatisfaction. Dissatisfaction and a need for something else. Something more.

And he'd always had a fierce loathing for his mother who had abandoned him, for the muggle orphanage who had treated him so cruelly, for the world who feared and hated him. Yet perhaps it was just that. Perhaps part of his detestation for the world was spurned by a lack of something. Something that everyone else but him had. Something that was both fierce and gentle, both ravaging and healing. Something that was so strong and powerful that it seemed to overcome every attack.

He had never felt it. Never felt it. _Never felt love_.

He uttered those last words aloud and they hung in the air, full of grief and pain. He felt suddenly hollow. As is everything he'd ever accomplished was meaningless and insignificant. As if _he_ was meaningless and insignificant.

"Never felt love," he repeated, in a choked whisper.

"I don't think you deserve it, Tom," Dumbledore said suddenly, and his eyes were hard, his voice angry, "You have caused so much pain and suffering in the world. You have torn so many people's families, lives and worlds apart. Do you deserve any love?"

There was a long silence. The air was heavy with unspoken emotion. It was now Dumbledore who glared at the man before him. The man who cowered on the floor with tear-stained cheeks and trembling shoulders.

"No," he said dejectedly, "No I don't deserve it."

Slowly, he rose to his feet and stood there. His pearly eyes were lifeless, a window to the broken soul within.

"What is the point in living without any of these things?" he said dully, "It is just... empty."

"If only you'd realised that before, Tom," the old man said, and his anger had gone – he sounded weary.

Voldemort raised his head and stood tall, looking Dumbledore straight in the eye.

"Then I am ready," he said, "Kill me completely. I am ready to die. For I must die. I thought power gave me something worth living for, but now I see I had nothing all along. I see no point to my existence."

"I think perhaps what you want is not to die, but to be given another chance."

"What do you mean?"

Dumbledore turned away and looked up at the clock, its hand still resting on the first strange symbol. His expression was sombre.

"Do you know how many worlds there are, Tom?" he said after a while, "How many alternative universes there are? Think of all the what-ifs, the could-have-beens, the maybes. They all exist somewhere. Do you ever wonder if your life had been different? If you'd made different choices? You can find out if you wish it."

He turned back to look at Tom, and his blue eyes were kindly and warm. Voldemort looked confused. He stared at Dumbledore, wringing his hands, and he licked his lips nervously.

"I... I'm not sure what you mean."

"Come with me. I have something to show you."

He led the way across the vast room, past many pillars and columns and the whole odd assortment of chairs, until they reached a far wall where some familiar objects were neatly stacked four by four.

"Muggle televisions," Dumbledore said, looking at them fondly, "Almost magic in themselves."

Each of the sixteen screens flickered blurry, black and white images. They moved so fast it was hard to tell what they depicted, but there were the shadows of people moving around.

"What are these?" Tom asked.

"Why don't you turn some on and find out?" Dumbledore suggested, stepping back and gesturing for him to do so.

"But aren't they already on?" he asked, perplexed, looking at the indistinguishable pictures. Receiving no answer, he reached out tentatively and pressed the button on the first television.

The screen stopped flickering and began to play a scene. It was a grainy image, showing stoned walls and archways – the inside of Hogwarts. A group of students were walking together. There were four of them, all boys, shoving at each other jokily. One had a Slytherin scarf and was waving it excitedly over his head. Another, dressed in the Quidditch gear of a keeper, was dancing energetically about the corridor. The boy with a scarf and a third one – a large, muscular boy – grabbed the keeper, lifted him onto their shoulders, and disappeared off the left of the screen, closely followed by the last of the four, a small boy with a tawny owl sitting on his shoulder.

Once they'd gone, the clip started again, the same people, the same movements. Voldemort watched, his head tilted to one side, pale eyes darting across the screen, taking everything in. He stepped forward and leaned closer, trying to get a better look.

"What?" he cried, "That... no... I... _what_?"

The keeper, the boy with the owl, and the thickset boy were all faceless. Where their features should have been, the image was blurred and smoky. But the boy with the scarf's face was clearly recognisable.

"That's me!" Tom said in shock, turning to Dumbledore, "But... but I don't remember this..."

"That is because that is a different you. A Tom Marvolo Riddle from another world."

He looked back at the television in amazement, mouth hanging open slightly. His other self looked so gleeful and animated. And he had friends. Actual _friends_. Not just servants who followed him around and obeyed his commands, but people who were with him, treating him as an equal, sharing their happiness with him. He hadn't had this in the world he'd known.

Apprehensively, he pressed the button on the next television. Another Tom appeared, several years older than the first and this time sitting in The Three Broomsticks in Hogsmead, surrounded by other friends, chattering away, clutching their butterbeers.

"Is this another world too?" he asked, unable to keep the eagerness from his voice, "Another me?"

"Each television shows a different story," Dumbledore said, "Each with its own mysteries, tragedies, beginnings and endings."

The next screen showed an eleven-year-old Tom walking through Diagon Alley, clutching a stack of new spell books to his chest. Behind him walked a tall man carrying a cauldron and an owl cage, and a woman with curly hair, who was holding the hand of a small girl.

"My... parents?" he muttered to himself, his nose inches away from the screen, "A world where they're together, looking after me? I have a family!"

Soon, all sixteen of the machines were on, playing a montage of different Tom Marvolo Riddles; at Hogwarts with friends, walking through various wizarding towns and villages, in different houses. There was one where a middle-aged Tom was teaching a young boy how to ride a broomstick – his own _child_? Another showed him as an old man in a hospital bed, family and friends clustered around him. In yet another one he was a young man walking down a country lane, everything blanketed in thick, white snow, holding the hand of a girl with long, fair hair.

Voldemort sat on the floor before them all, watching intently, hungrily, child-like fascination on his face. He had forgotten Dumbledore standing several metres away, forgotten where he was, in those few minutes that he'd looked upon these alternate worlds. He couldn't quite believe it, seeing himself so happy and free. It was a strange experience to watch them, and as he did so a heavy sadness grew inside him. He'd never known, and he never would know, how it felt. In this world he was nothing more than a cruel, twisted overlord, barely even human. He had killed and destroyed ruthlessly so many times, bringing chaos and war, death and misery to the whole wizarding world. He was a monster. A sick, detestful monster.

And he was so very jealous of these other Toms. They knew nothing of it. None of the excruciating anguish he felt right now. They were just ordinary, normal wizards, with jobs and friends and a family. And he envied them.

"You know you could still have this, Tom," Dumbledore said, almost as if he'd read his mind, "If you want to."

He sat calmly down on an ornate metal stool and stared at the great arched ceiling, looking thoughtful.

"The afterlife is a mysterious thing," he continued, "Why, I say it often, death is but the next great adventure. Powerful wizards though we both are, it is certain that neither of us can even hope to achieve understanding of even the tiniest fraction of it."

"Is this the afterlife then?" Tom asked, his attention no longer on the television screens, "What happens now?"

"That is really up to you, Tom. It's your life. Your choices."

"Life? But I'm dead... aren't I?"

"In the world you have just come from, yes. But in others... we can assume not. And now you must leave."

As the professor spoke these words, it was like the very air trembled, and the building around them began to blur. Voldemort leapt to his feet, looking around in alarm.

"What's happening?" he cried, "Wait! Leave? I don't understand."

"You're going to another you, Tom," Dumbledore said, and his voice was faint and distant, "Another Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Now he began to fade too, his features becoming hazy and indistinct.

"Maybe you could find yourself. The you who could have been. The real you."

"No, wait!" he shouted, in a rising panic now, gazing about at his rapidly disappearing surroundings, "I don't understand! No... help me!"

"Only you can help yourself, Tom."


	2. A Confusion of Two Minds

I would have updated ages ago, but my dad threatened to confiscate my laptop, so I had to cut down the amount of time I spent on it, which made my typing up process really long. So I apologize for that. Thank you to everyone who favourited or reviewed!

IMPORTANT NOTE: I have no idea why it is doing this, but whenever I change what I've written to 'NEWTs' (but with . in between the letters) then save it, it changes it straight back to 'N.E..' so I'd blame my stupid computer for any mistakes you find like that .

I do not own Harry Potter. If I did it would have turned out terrible.

**Chapter 2 - A Confusion of Two Minds**

Tom woke with a start, sitting up sharply, covered in sweat and shaking. He was sitting on a narrow, rickety bed in a small gloomy room. The sheets were flung to the side, and he sat there, wearing only a pair of black cotton trousers, gazing about himself in confusion. A large traveller's rucksack leant against the bare wall opposite. There was a thin wardrobe in the corner, its one door hanging off its hinges. Next to it was a desk, the surface covered in burn marks, and a wooden chair with a leg missing. Above the desk was a small window, the glass thick with grime and cobwebs. He walked slowly over to it, his bare feet touching lightly on the cold floorboards.

Outside he could just make out a few stubby trees on a flat, grey moor. It was raining. He stared out the window, his head spinning. He felt so confused, like he had too many thoughts and memories crammed into his brain, all buzzing for attention. Closing his eyes, he let his mind slowly relax and wander.

He could remember it all: the muggle orphanage, going to Hogwarts, the Horcruxes, his Death Eaters, the life of Lord Voldemort – he shuddered inside at the thought – and the conversation with Dumbledore. But there were other memories there too, ones he had never seen before, but at the same time, he _knew_ them. Maybe that was what Dumbledore had meant. Maybe he had entered one of these other worlds. Become another him. _'Only you can help yourself, Tom.'_ The words echoed in his head, but he still wasn't sure he understood.

He tried to remember his life; this new one which he felt he'd both had yet never seen before. Like he was two different Tom Riddles in one body. Born on the 6th January, this time in 1992, nearly a whole lifetime difference from the world he'd just come from. He'd been raised in the same muggle orphanage, visited by Dumbledore, gone to Hogwarts, been placed in Slytherin. He'd had a friend, and he screwed up his eyes trying to remember how they met. Sitting in an empty compartment on the Hogwarts Express, a boy coming in, asking shyly if he could sit there. His name was Marcus Dirkwood, also put in Slytherin, and they hadn't been that close. It had been an awkward friendship. Neither of them had got on well with anyone else, so they had stuck together out of convenience.

He remembered his time at Hogwarts, leaving after his seventh year with six N.E.. Then Marcus had left to go to the Mediterranean, after being offered a year long trip to study plants and their uses in potions. He remembered saying goodbye to his sort-of-friend, then not really knowing what to do, and so beginning a slow wander of Britain, drifting from place to place.

And where was he now? When was it? Why was he here? He opened his eyes and saw his reflection in the dirty window; pale skin, purple shadows under his eyes, and his dark hair messy after having just woken up. It was the 26th April 2011, and he was in a muggle bed and breakfast somewhere near Stoke.

Tom sighed and went to sit back on the bed. It was a strange feeling to have two so very different lives packed inside his head. He felt old and tired. Like he'd seen enough of the world and had enough of life. The memories of this life here and now seemed faint and less real, like he'd read them in a book. Voldemort was much more prominent and concrete in his mind. Once more he shuddered at the thought of who he was and what he had done. And some part of that great suffering he'd felt when the shadowy orb sunk into his heart hit him again. It was as though something inside his head screamed out in pain and loss suddenly. He raised his quavering hands to his face, trying to blink back the tears that had sprung to the corners of his eyes.

_No. He wasn't going to be like this. He had to be strong. What had Dumbledore said? That he was going to another Tom Marvolo Riddle. Was this it then? He had been somehow plunged into another world. A world in a whole other millennium. A world where he'd had a different life, made other choices, done different things. A world with no Lord Voldemort. He was just Tom Riddle now. An inexperienced boy, just out of school, with nowhere to go and nothing to do. This was his second chance to get life right. To do something worthwhile. And maybe this time... maybe this time he could feel real love and happiness..._

A weak smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He looked up at the small, dirty window where he could just make out a few glittering stars against the inky sky. A new chance. Was that just what he needed? He lay down on the hard mattress, pulling the coarse sheets up to his chin, hoping to re-enter the sleep that he'd been suddenly awoken from not ten minutes ago.

_Please to God, don't screw this up, Tom,_ he thought desperately.

...

Several hours later he woke again, this time startled by a sharp tapping on the window. He sat up, scrambling for his wand under the pillow. But his panic was short-lived. It was just an owl, sitting on the outside sill, an envelope clamped in its beak. He hurried over to the window, fumbling for a few seconds with the stiff catch, then flung it open. A large barn owl flew in, dropping the letter on the desk and landing with a flump on the bed.

"Good flight Nagne?" he found himself asking.

The owl hooted in an irritated tone, then flew onto his shoulder and pecked gently at his ear.

So this was his owl? He searched back through his memories until he found one of his fourteen year old self stumbling into Eeylops Owl Emporium and buying this owl.

"Your talons are digging in, girl," he muttered, and she pecked at his ear one more before fluttering to the top of the wardrobe.

He picked up the envelope, seeing in the words _Tom Riddle_ scrawled across it in messy writing. Opening it, he read:

_Dear Tom,_

_If this letter finds you still wandering aimlessly around Britain, the I'd suggest hurrying up and doing something with your life. I would suggest getting a job. Been chatting with Barney Lodhupper. He may be old and slightly insane, but he's seen a lot of life, and reckons the Ministry is heading for a bad spell. Seems to think there'll be some trouble soon. And apparently things aren't' going well at Azkaban lately. How he knows all this is beyond me._

_Six months in, good progress being made. I nearly blew up the camp yesterday. Turns out it is not a good idea to boil certain plant saps together for more than ten minutes. Lost a decent cauldron doing that. Good thing I was using small doses. But this is a very interesting and highly educational trip._

_Anyway, hope you're well, it was good to hear from you._

_Marcus._

Tom folded the letter and stuffed it into his rucksack; he'd answer it when something more interesting had happened and when he had the time. Also, he didn't think Nagne would be very happy if he sent her all the way back to the Mediterranean again.

Had anything interesting happened recently?

_No_, a small voice said in the back of his head,_ nothing except dying, then feeling a huge torrent of my victims' pain, being told that there were other worlds, and then waking up as my nineteen-year-old self._

He blanched at the thought of telling someone that. No one would believe it. They'd think he was insane! For someone to learn that in another world he had killed and tortured so many people, ruined so many lives, brought such fear and hate and panic to the whole wizarding world... No! No one could know. It would stay locked inside his head. He wouldn't let anyone find out. This was his new life. And it would all go well.

Something struck him suddenly. It had been like... when he was reading the letter, it was Tom Riddle from this world who had done all the thinking. But when considering his situation and what had happened before he woke in this different universe, it was the other Tom thinking. The Voldemort Tom.

Was that what life was going to be like for him now? Two contrasting people in one body, surfacing at different times to think and act and speak? He hoped it would be 19 year old Tom who took control the most, and not recently dead Tom. Or perhaps he could achieve some kind of balance.

...

Tom left the muggle bed and breakfast an hour or so later wearing jeans and a black jacket, rucksack on his back and his wand stuffed securely up his top, where he could easily get it out if need be. The squat, bald man who ran the place glared suspiciously at him as he paid; it may have had something to do with his adamant refusal for breakfast. Tom then hurried outside, looking up at the dull grey sky. He heard Nagne hoot reproachfully from somewhere on the roof of the building. She had wanted to rest, but he had instructed her to go to London. He walked quickly down the muddy road stopping only when he was out of sight. Then he turned on the spot and disapparated.

He appeared in an alleyway next to a bin overflowing with rubbish. A cat darted away in shock, hissing madly. Tom readjusted the straps of his bag and walked onto the busy street. He dodged past all the muggles who marched stiffly past in their formal suits, until he pushed his way through a door and entered the Leaky Cauldron.

There were not many people there. Two toothy, old witches were huddled together at one table, muttering over their cups of tea, and a surly, bearded wizard sat in the corner reading the Daily Prophet. They glanced at him momentarily when he entered, but paid him no further attention. The barman nodded at him as he approached.

"Good morning," he said, "Terrible weather we're having."

"I, uh... yes," Tom said, his voice catching in his throat a little.

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"I would like a room for the next week or so."

"Certainly, sir."

"But, ah, you see," Tom muttered, avoiding the man's eyes, "I'm actually a little low... um, so..."

"That is perfectly fine, sir," he replied in an understanding tone, "The price can be lowered, and free meals, in return for some help with shifting and carrying things. My muscles aren't what they used to be. And we'll see what else we can have you doing."

"Thanks," Tom said, relieved.

The barman got a large leather-bound book and a quill out from under the bar.

"Name?"

"Tom Riddle."

"Well, we'll put you in room four. Everything should be adequate. And here's your key."

Tom pocketing the key, mumbled another thank you and started towards the stair across the room.

"Just left Hogwarts, Mr Riddle?" the barman enquired, "Yes? And unemployed I'd say? Well, I would suggest you get a job while you can. Folks reckon there'll be a bit of a struggle with things at the Ministry soon."

He nodded benignly, then turned and shuffled off into the dark store room behind the bar.

Tom left his rucksack in his room and then headed out into Diagon Alley. It was still fairly early in the morning, so the streets were peaceful. Nobody bothered him as he slowly wandered the long streets, simply watching. It was like seeing things with new eyes; with the mindset of a young Tom Riddle who shared the knowledge of a Dark Wizard. It had been a long time since he'd been able to walk down a street without causing destruction and havoc as he went. But at the same time he'd been enjoying Hogsmead with fellow students not so long ago.

He spent another hour or so in Diagon Alley. He removed a handful of Galleons from the pitiful pile in his Gringotts vault, bought some more ink, and a bag of Owl Treats for Nagne. He then browsed through the careers section in Flourish and Blott's, thinking about what both Marcus and the barman had said to him.

This was his chance to have a life without being a torturous mass-murderer, and he might as well make the most of it. He picked up a book and flicked through a few pages. _Journalism in the Daily Prophet._ That didn't interest him at all. Putting the book back he ran his eyes over the spines of the others.

_Working Abroad for Gringotts._

_A Guide to Working in Wizarding Law._

_The Auror Office: Fighting Dark Magic._

Perhaps he could be an Auror. He did have great knowledge and understanding of the ways of Dark Wizards. But what if being in such close contact with the Dark Arts caused his to revert to old ways? What if he became tempted to... He shuddered slightly, feeling rather ill, and moved on to look at another shelf.

_St. Mungo's: What is a Healer?_

_St. Mungo's: Bites, Stings and Rashes._

_St. Mungo's: Dangerous and Contagious._

The idea of being a Healer was not appealing.

_So You Want To Work For The Ministry Of Magic?_

"No," he muttered under his breath. He didn't much fancy that. Especially if what he'd been told was true, and there was going to be trouble.

All of a sudden there was a loud crash behind him. He turned, startled. A middle-aged witch with very thick, dark hair tutted impatiently and, with a flick of her wand, the books she had dropped jumped up into her arms. She bobbed her head at him apologetically and hurried off, muttering as she did so: "Trust her to need new books again... lost! Lost my foot... Hogwarts books don't come cheap..."

He watched her bustle round the corner. Hogwarts... perhaps he could be a teacher there. But no, that would mean working under Dumbledore, and he doubted he would be able to keep his cool whilst being watched by those piercing blue eyes. The old man was likely to see right through him right away. No... he wouldn't be a teacher at Hogwarts.

Feeling quite disheartened at his unproductive search, he left the store and began to walk through Diagon Alley once more, his hands in his pockets. It was midmorning now, and the place was slowly filling with witches and wizards jostling past each other, standing idly in groups, chatting, and pushing in and out of shops, carrying boxes and bags of varying sizes.

He passed Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, and felt the ache in his stomach grow. He hadn't eaten for over a day, and he was starving. But he shook his head and walked on by resolutely. He needed what little money he had to pay for his room in the Leaky Cauldron.

He hadn't gone far when he heard someone yelp behind him. Turning around, he saw the witch from Flourish and Blott's glaring angrily at the back of a wizard who was hurrying in the opposite direction. The books she had been carrying and a few boxes from the apothecary were scattered on the floor.

Without thinking, Tom took out his wand, muttered a quick spell, and her purchases all rose into the air, where they hovered in a neat stack. The woman looked rather shocked, then gathered them into her arms, turning a little pink.

"Thank you sir," she said, sounding rather flustered, "Very kind... stupid bumpkin knocked into me... thank you."

And she hastened away.

Tom lowered his wand, surprised at himself. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done something kind for someone. He walked back to the Leaky Cauldron, feeling slightly buoyant and pleased with himself.

...

Tom spent much of the next week running errands around Diagon Alley. He did not mind much, for it kept him busy, and when he was busy it gave him no time to think. And thinking too much of his situation and past life was not something he enjoyed doing.

The barman at the Leaky Cauldron wasted little time in contacting nearly every shop owner in the street, who all seemed eager to have someone do the work they didn't want to do, and pay him very little for it. He was sent back and forth across Diagon Alley for the majority of his days there, shifting and carrying and putting things in boxes and taking things out of boxes. Some places had him clean their floors after closing time, and once he spent several hours in the back room of Gambol and Japes, ridding them of a Doxy infestation. The work was not too hard, and he did it as quickly and quietly as he could. Most people ignored him, and he kept himself to himself, only speaking when spoken to.

Every evening he would return to the Leaky Cauldron for a quick meal, help close up the place for the night, then collapse into his bed and not move until morning. He slept restlessly, tossing and turning 'til very late. He tried clearing his mind with Occlumency, but his dreams remained invaded by the memories of his past, and a distinct feeling of pain and grief.

A week after he arrived, Tom returned to the Leaky Cauldron at midday, his hands covered in scratches and bites – Flourish and Blott's had sent him to deal with the new batch of Monster Book of Monsters. He sat down with a bowl of onion soup, and began to pour over the careers and advertisements section of the _Daily Prophet_, as he did every day. He had not been there for two minutes when someone came and stood beside him and said: "Excuse me, is this your owl?"

Tom looked up to see a young man about his own age standing by him. He was tall, and skinny in a way that made him appear under-nourished, with short, messy brown hair and a slightly crooked nose. On his outstretched arm perched Nagne, looking noticeably ruffled.

"Oh, yes," he said, wondering why on earth this man had his owl, "Um... where did you-"

"Another flew right into her," the man explained, "Must've knocked her a bit, she flew into my window. She wasn't my owl, so I thought I'd ask whoever else is staying here."

He detached Nagne from his arm and put her gently on the table. She looked rather dazed.

"Well... uh, thanks," Tom muttered, setting down the _Prophet_ and offering her a crust of bread.

The man sat down on the other side of the table, a little way along the bench. Tom glanced up. The man was watching him.

"Riddle, isn't it?" he said, "Tom Riddle?"

Tom nodded. It struck him that he looked quite familiar, but he didn't know why.

"I was in the year above you at Hogwarts. Slytherin house. The name's Quirinus Quirrel."

Tom froze. With a nauseating rush his mind flooded with memories of the forest in Albania, forcing his way into the man's body, slowly and painfully ripping out the back of his head.

Vaguely, he could hear Quirrel still speaking nearby.

"Yes, stupid name, I know. Blame my mother for that. Most people just call me Quirrel, to be hone- hey, are you alright?"

Tom's face was pale and his hands felt clammy. He gulped before answering, "Yes, yes... I'm fine..."

"Uhuh," Quirrel said, though he still looked at him strangely.

The words on the _Prophet_ all blurred into a grey mass as Tom stared down at them, his mouth dry.

_Be nice to him,_ he thought desperately, _you tortured him for over a year. He died because of you. Be nice to him._

"So," he said awkwardly, "What, um, what brings you to London?"

"My mother was being unbearable," Quirrel said, sounding sour, "I'll have to go back home soon, but I'm putting it off for as long as I can. I'd buy my own place, but my wage isn't nearly enough."

"Oh, so you work then," Tom asked, trying to sound conversational and feeling foolish, "What do you do?"

"I'm a junior assistant in the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad," he said, "I get given all the paperwork mostly. But it is rather fun going out on a raid and seeing all the stupid things people have managed to do. What about you? You got a job?"

"No," he sighed, tapping the newspaper in front of him, "That's what I'm trying to do. But no luck."

"What do you _want_ to do?"

"Honestly, I have no idea."

Quirrel nodded sympathetically, "Well, what about in your careers interview in fifth year?"

"They all wanted me to aim really high," Tom said, absentmindedly stroking Nagne's soft feathers, "Ministry for Magic, they said. But I don't want to work at the Ministry."

_I don't want a high-up position. I don't want to be recognised. I just want to go somewhere quiet and out of the way. Somewhere I can try and live an ordinary, simple life. Somewhere I won't be able to hurt anybody._

But he did not voice that out loud.

"What N.E. do you have?" Quirrel asked.

"Transfiguration, Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Charms, Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures," he reeled them off, feeling rather surprised at himself for the last one, "All O's except for E's in Potions and Herbology."

"Star student, I see," Quirrel chuckled, "What subject did you really enjoy, then? What did you like doing?"

Tom thought back through his memories of Hogwarts. He had been good at all his subjects, and had enjoyed them all purely for the fact that he was gaining magical knowledge. But what lesson had a really enjoyed? What lesson had he particularly looked forward to?

Almost feeling ashamed of his choice, he said: "Care of Magical Creatures."

He was good with animals and beasts; they seemed to trust him and be more relaxed around him than with other people. He learnt their habits and natures, and was patient with them. And he liked them. They interested him.

"Well then," Quirrel said, "Work with animals. I suppose you could work in the Department for the Regulation and... no, you don't fancy working in the Ministry, do you?"

He paused thoughtfully, staring somewhere in the region of the space above Nagne's head. Tom wondered why Quirrel was trying to so helpful. For a few seconds he was filled with a horrible urge to take out his wand and curse him... do something to make him hurt... something that would make him scream in pain...

"Oh," he said suddenly, snapping his fingers and looking back at Tom, "Boorman's!"

"What?"

"I live in a place called Frennell," Quirrel explained, "And nearby is a place run by Zudoc Boorman – he was a friend of my father's – which is kind of like a zoo and an menagerie and a hospital all rolled into one. Really hard to explain. They deal with a whole load of magical creatures, transporting them and housing them, organising breeding and culling alongside the Ministry, that kind of thing. They also provide medical treatment and care for any creature. It's quite a large organisation; he has people off all over the world studying things. Works a bit with plants too, especially the dangerous ones."

Tom had to admit he was intrigued and slightly relieved. After a week of looking for something that was remotely appealing, and all in vain, within five minutes of speaking to Quirrel he might have found a career that he would both enjoy and be good at.

"That actually sounds really good," he said, ruffling the feathers between Nagne's wings.

"I could write to him, if you like," Quirrel offered, smiling, "He's a really informal, relaxed guy. Always welcomes a helping hand and a new employee."

"I-" Tom began, but before he could finish a large box crammed full of parchment thudded onto the table next to him.

"You couldn't sort through them could you, Mr Riddle?" the barman asked, "Get rid of any dating before five years ago, and check they're all in chronological order. Alphabetical when needed, too. Thank you. I'd do bit, but I have to go out back. Mundungus Fletcher is up to his usual tricks."


	3. Grandeur and an Unfamiliar Warmth

Thanks again to all my reviewers! I'm getting a bit paranoid, I feel like as I write each chapter my writing deteriorates and becomes worse. On a lighter note: I've actually planned the whole(ish) thing properly now. I'm growing quite fond of my little Tommy Riddle - I feel so bad for some of the stuff I make him go through. And I have managed to come up with a few plot twists and the like that I didn't have before. I hope I can deliver :) Please review, let me know what you think.

JK Rowling owns Harry Potter.

**Chapter 3: Grandeur and an Unfamiliar Warmth**

Three days later, two young men in black travelling cloaks appeared suddenly in a wide country lane, great hedgerows on either side.

"Yes, this is just past Frennell," Quirrel said, looking around, "Boorman's is this way."

He strode off and Tom followed silently.

Those few days before, when they met in the Leaky Cauldron, Quirrel had written to Zudoc Boorman, and he had replied the very next day inviting them both to come to the site. Quirrel had also told Tom about a family who had a house by the village and were hoping to rent out a room at a very good price. Having found them in the advertisement section of the _Daily Prophet_, Tom sent a polite letter with Nagne inquiring if he could visit about the room, to which they had replied in what seemed rather eager agreement.

Since that day, Quirrel had joined Tom in the Leaky Cauldron whenever he saw him, and would stop to talk if they passed in the street. Tom thought he might get annoyed at this – and indeed there were times when he had to stifle the great urge to attack him and others around them – but he was glad of the company, and it was nice to just talk sometimes. It was a strange feeling; not quite happiness, but a pleasant satisfaction that at least one person in the world _chose_ to talk to him, and not out of fear.

"This is it," Quirrel said, stopping abruptly.

A tall set of gates with thick metal bars rose out of the hedge, 'Zudoc Boorman' written across the top in curling, golden letters. Quirrel made to push the gates open, but as his fingers touched the bars a woman's voice echoed out.

"Welcome to Zudoc Boorman's. As this is a secure environment, please state your business before entering."

"Quirinus Quirrel and Tom Riddle to see Mr Boorman," he said loudly.

There was a pause, then the voice said in a much breezier tone: "Have a nice day."

The gates swung open and then clanged shut behind them. A wide, stone-flagged path led up to a strange looking white building. At the centre was a huge domed structure with an archway at the front. It looked very regal and sophisticated, but the effect was somewhat ruined by what surrounded it. Rectangular blocks were stuck higgledy-piggledy around the dome, jutting out at odd angles, or stacked on top of each other in no particular order at all.

The two men walked up the path towards the arch, beyond which were large wooden doors inlaid with stained-glass panels. As they reached the doors a smaller, human-sized section opened automatically. They went in.

The interior was very large and very grand. The walls and floor were the same smooth, white marble as the outside, and a rich purple carpet stretched across the centre, creating a pathway to a long desk at the far end of the room.

"And this is just the entrance hall," Quirrel whispered, smirking.

As they began the journey towards the desk, Tom looked around at the walls, where paintings of magical creatures were lined in neat rows. Halfway down the hall they passed a small gramophone playing soft, quiet, boring music; the kind you forgot as soon as you were out of earshot. Next to it was a gold-rimmed plant pot, out of which many long, lime green tendrils sprouted, each waving a little, as though dancing to the music.

They reached the desk, a young blonde witch who looked very bored sitting behind it.

"How may I help you?" she said.

"We're here to see Mr Boorman," Quirrel told her, watching her twirling a sliver quill around her fingers, nails painted a vivid pink.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Well, not exactly," Quirrel hesitated, "He told us to drop in today at any time... I have a letter..."

He stuffed his hands deep in his pockets, and eventually pulled out a crumpled bit of parchment. She took it and read it quickly, eyebrows raised, before handing it back to him.

"Miss Pike will take you up to Mr Boorman's office," she said, pressing the second of a row of bells in front of her, "Have a nice day."

The purple curtains that covered the wall behind the desk swung gracefully apart, revealing a marble staircase beyond.

"Uh... thanks," Tom muttered, then followed after Quirrel, who had already strolled off. The witch said nothing, but she watched him walk past out of the corner of her eye.

An older witch was waiting for them at the foot of the staircase. She had short brown hair set in fierce curls about her face, and wore a grey suit and skirt. She nodded at them curtly, then turned and began to walk up the stairs.

"My name is Julia Pike," she told them, "I am Mr Boorman's personal assistant. Follow me please, and I'll take you to his office."

Quirrel looked for a moment like he was going to point out that they were already following her, but he didn't.

They went up two flights of stairs, through a door, and down a long, purple-carpeted corridor. A middle-aged, balding wizard hurried past them once, muttered a quick "Amos is late again, Julia," to the witch, then disappeared through a door.

Once through another set of double doors at the end of the corridor, they found themselves in a large room – a long sofa on one side, and an enormous fish tank on the other, that looked like it was empty but for some rippling green weeds.

"If you'd wait here," Miss Pike said, "Mr Boorman will be with you shortly."

And with that she disappeared through the door, upon which was a plaque reading 'Zudoc Boorman, Order of Merlin 3rd Class.' Quirrel threw himself onto the sofa and settled back with his hands behind his head.

"Nervous, Riddle?" he asked, as Tom sat down slowly beside him.

"This place," Tom murmured, "It's so..."

"Big. Posh. Grand. Fancy," Quirrel chuckled.

"Well, yes."

"Wait 'til you see Boorman himself then. He is quite something else!"

A picture sprang to Tom's mind of a large man with a grey moustache in a velvet suit, sitting in an oak panelled room, smoking cigars and ordering people around.

He gazed up at the ceiling, thinking he should perhaps say something. But he remained silent. He found it hard to know what to say to people.

"So we'll be going over to the Bright's after this?" Quirrel said, evidently trying to ease the awkwardness himself, "To see their room for rent?"

"I said I would," he nodded, "They're expecting me in the afternoon sometime."

"I'll go with you," Quirrel said, "It's been a long time since I've seen them. You don't mind, do you?"

"Uh...no."

"A lovely family, the Brights," he continued, "You'll like them Riddle. It'd be pretty good, eh? If you get a job here _and_ can rent a room nearby. Won't have to apparate into work every single day."

He shook his head and stared at the ceiling also. Tom listened politely, still saying nothing.

"God, I hate commuting. I know I only work four days a week, but it is effort to drag yourself out of bed in the morning and walk down the lane to apparate. My mother insists I don't do it in the house. Stupid, really. I don't see what her problem is. She's so... so... overbearing."

Tom struggled to think of something to say in response, but he was saved by Julia Pike coming back through the door. The two of them stood up.

"Mr Boorman says I'm to take you to his _other_ office," she said, looking disgruntled.

She marched stiffly off, and they followed her, until it seemed they were going into the depths of the building, down a spiral staircase, and then once more they reached a door with a plaque that stated 'Zudoc Boorman, Order of Merlin 3rd Class.' She knocked once and a deep voice called out, "Enter."

She opened it and announced, "Mr Quirrel and Mr Riddle to see you, sir," then gestured them through.

The room was entirely unlike what Tom had expected to see. It was large, with wooden slats for the floor and walls lined with shelves. These shelves hosted all sorts of books and boxes and whirring instruments and jars of animal organs. A long desk occupied the middle of the room, littered with open books, scraps of parchment, quills and inkpots. Several armchairs stood at intervals round the room, and in one sat a man.

He was a rather round man, with a large grey moustache, but that was all that Tom had imagined correctly. He had thin grey hair, messed up as though he was constantly running his hands through it. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up, a quill tucked behind his ear, and a blue ink smudge on his nose. On his lap sat a cat with freakishly long whiskers and a grumpy expression.

"Quirinus," the man spread his arms wide, "Long time, no see. You look more and more like your father every time I see you. Welcome, welcome."

He got up to shake Quirrel's hand, and the cat slunk under the table with an angry hiss.

"And you must be Tom Riddle! Zudoc Boorman at your service, my good sir."

Tom shook his hand also.

Please, please, sit down."

He gestured to the armchairs, and all three sat.

"So, down to business. Mr Riddle, you're enquiring after a job. I have the letter you sent with Quirinus here... somewhere."

He scrabbled through some stacks of parchment until he found what he was looking for.

"Yes, yes, yes," he continued, "This is very good. Seven NEWTs, five of which are O's. Very good indeed. Someone like you, Mr Riddle, I could put very high up here. Unfortunately, due to your age and lack of experience... but I would be delighted for you to work here. Tea?"

Before Tom or Quirrel could answer, he had taken out his wand, and three china teacups, a pot, a jug and a spoon rose off a shelf and floated onto the table. They both took their cups politely, though Boorman left his own untouched.

"We do have several vacancies, Mr Riddle. A few in the International Department, but they tend not to take people new to the business. You could work in the Medical Unit, but that requires several years training through St. Mungo's, and, if I let you in on a little secret boys, we don't have the extra money to do that right now. There's a space in our Legal Department, since Mafalda is on maternity leave. Or you could work in Reptiles. Tharret retired not long ago, and they'd like more help. Not many people fancy working with the reptiles, especially the snakes."

"I'd do that," Tom said.

Boorman looked positively delighted.

"Excellent," he said, clapping his hands briskly, "Obviously you were good at Care of Magical Creatures at Hogwarts, though of course I'll have to write for a reference. It's Kettleburn who teaches there, isn't it? Now, you're sure about this, are you?"

Tom nodded. He would have been glad to get any sort of job here, and reptiles were a good opportunity. Their silence and stealth and predatory skills fascinated him. Especially snakes. He'd always liked snakes...

"Well then, you'll need to fill out some forms," Boorman went over to a filing cabinet and began to rummage in one of the drawers, "I'll send a note to Levski in the office and arrange for you come in for an interview over the next few days. Things should go pretty smoothly- aha, here we are!"

He returned to the desk and passed several sheets of parchment to Tom.

"You can bring these in when we do your interview. Now, ah, is there anything you think might set you apart for this job?"

"I... I'm a Parselmouth," he muttered.

Quirrel choked on his tea. Boorman's eyebrows shot right up, and he stared at Tom with interest.

"Really? How... unusual."

There was an awkward silence, in which Tom stared uncomfortably down at his knees.

"Well then," Boorman cleared his throat, "I'm sure you young men have other things to do, and I... ah... I should get back to work."

He stood up, and they followed suit.

"I'll send you an owl about the interview, Mr Riddle. It was nice to meet you. Quirinus."

They both shook hands with him once more, then he hurried to the door and held it open for them.

"Thank you, Mr Boorman," Tom said politely.

"Yes, thank you," Quirrel added.

"My pleasure," the old man smiled, "Good day to you."

Julia Pike was standing at the foot of the spiral staircase. Tom wondered whether she'd been waiting there for them the whole time.

"If you'd follow me back to the entrance hall," she said.

Once they had emerged from the small, dull corridor into the brightly lit marble hall, she jerked her head in a sort of bow and bid them good day. The blonde witch at the reception desk smiled at them with bright red lips, and her eyes followed them all along the purple carpet and out the door. As soon as they were outside, Quirrel hissed, "You never told me you were a Parselmouth, Riddle."

"It never came up," Tom replied, tucking the papers into the inside pocket of his robes.

"That's rare, that is," Quirrel said as they walked back down the path, "There's not many I've heard of that can talk to snakes. There's Slytherin of course, everyone knows that. And that guy who was sent to Azkaban a few years back for torturing and killing muggles. What was his name? Uh... Gaunt. Morfin Gaunt."

Tom said nothing, but images flashed through his mind of the hovel the Gaunts had lived in, his uncle, a flash of green light...

"I guess we'd better get going to the Bright's house then," Quirrel said cheerily, not noticing his companion pale and shudder slightly, "They live about ten minutes from here."

They walked briskly, not talking to each other. Occasionally Tom thought he could hear Quirrel humming quietly to himself.

Eventually they rounded a corner in the lane, where a dirt track led up to a wooden gate. A large stone sat at the side of the road, with the words 'High Frennell Hall' engraved into it.

"This is the place," Quirrel said, "Come on."

They went through the gate and followed the track round another bend, where the trees opened onto a large clearing. The house there was very odd. It looked as though someone had somehow ripped a tall, red-brick terrace house from a common London street, and dumped it in the middle of a field, immediately next to an old, thatched farmhouse. A large tree stood to the left, with a wooden swing hanging from one of the branches. It was such a strange looking place, yet so comfortable and homely at the same time. The front door was located under a porch on the townhouse side of the building. Next to it several broomsticks leant up against the wall by a rusty cauldron and some muddy wellington boots. Tom briefly considered sprinting back down the road and far away. Quirrel knocked on the door.

The witch with thick, brown hair that Tom had seen the week before in Diagon Alley opened the door. She stared rather blankly at them for a few seconds, then smiled.

"Hello, you must be Tom," she said kindly, "And Quirrel too! You know each other? Come in, my dears, come in."

They followed her into a large sitting room, where several mismatched sofas and armchairs stood around a threadbare rug.

So, you two are travelling together?" she asked, looking from one to the other with a curious expression.

"I was the one who told him about Boorman's," Quirrel explained, "So I went with him there, then thought I'd drop in here as I haven't seen you for ages."

"That's lovely of you, dear," she patted his arm, "It's a pleasure to see you."

A tall, balding man came into the room.

"Ah, this is my husband Theodore Bright," the woman said, "Theodore, this is Tom, and you know Quirrel. Oh, and silly me, I didn't introduce myself! I'm Vanessa."

Tom shook Theodore's hand as he said cheerfully, "So you're interested in renting our room, then? Well, I can show you round the house, come on."

Tom looked hesitantly at Quirrel before following the man out into a hallway. Behind him he heard Vanessa ask, "How's your mother?"

Mr Bright pointed through an open doorway, "Okay, so that is the kitchen. On the other side is my office, and up the stairs are mine and my two youngest children's rooms. The room we have available is on this side... up the stairs now."

They began up the stairs and came to a landing with three doors.

"These are my two eldest daughters' rooms," he said, "And a bathroom. Your room, if you choose to take it, is my eldest son's old room."

He continued to walk up the stairs as he spoke, and Tom followed in silence. They reached a second landing, where the stairs stopped altogether, and went through the single door.

The room was of average size, with wooden floorboards and bare white walls. The ceiling sloped on either side, and thick beams ran the length of the room. There was a bed, neatly made, on the right, next to a wardrobe and a dresser. On the left was a large desk, a door that led to a simple bathroom, and in the corner was a dark blue armchair. In the centre of the back wall was a large window giving view onto the garden and a wooded area beyond that. Sunlight streamed in, and the room was bright and open.

Tom didn't know what to make of it. Those distant memories of the orphanage were all of dark, cramped rooms. The dormitory and common room at Hogwarts had been in the dungeons, and were dimly-lit and cold. When as Voldemort, he had many memories of dark forests and high ceilinged rooms that all blurred into one morose, icy place of shadows. That was what he was used to. But this place was so different, and so... welcoming. Tom still wasn't sure of how he felt – these kind of emotions were new to him – but it was a positive feeling.

"It's not much," Mr Bright said genially, "If you take it, you'd be allowed to do with it what you like. Provided you don't destroy everything, of course."

He chuckled and gestured for them to start back down the stairs, "I'll show you the garden."

He led Tom through the house to the kitchen and out a door, where a lawn sloped downwards until it met the edge of the forest.

"We own all this land," Mr Bright said, "This place belonged to generations of my wife's family, though you could say it stopped at her, being a woman and an only child. There used to be a great house here. High Frennell Hall. But it was burnt down and then rebuilt as this is the late 1940s. It's-"

He was cut off by a shout from the right, "Dad! Amy fell over and she's crying and won't get up!"

A boy with short brown hair in a Tutshill Tornados shirt was hovering at the edge of the trees.

"Okay Max, I'm coming," Mr Bright called back, then he turned to Tom, "I'm sorry, my kids... if you go back inside, my wife will want to discuss arrangements... sorry..."

And he hurried off after his son.

Tom walked slowly back up to the house and into the kitchen, feeling very much like a trespasser. He hesitated in the hallway, and as he did so he heard Mrs Bright say: "What's Tom like, then?"

"He's a nice kid, I guess," Quirrel said, "Very quiet, keeps himself to himself. Not in a shy way, it's more like... like he just doesn't interact with people much. He just _doesn't_. I don't know much about him. Year below me, so I never really spoke to him. He didn't really have any friends, and he grew up in a muggle orphanage."

"The poor boy," she sighed, "No wonder he looks so withdrawn."

"It's strange though," Quirrel said after a pause, "He's pretty normal. But sometimes he... he just has this look about him. Like he's seen something horrible that is tormenting him over and over. And he just stares into space every so often with such a tortured expression. That's really why I've been talking to him, see, and why I came with him today. I just feel sorry for him. I don't know what the guy has been through, but I can bet it is not at all pleasent."

"Oh, the poor boy," Mrs Bright repeated, "I almost want to _make_ him stay here now. He needs a family and friends. Poor dear."

Tom felt a sudden surge of anger. It made his head spin and his mouth burn viciously._ How dare they take pity on him! How dare they! Did they not know who he was? He could kill them all in a second, tear their lives apart, make them scream in agony and..._

He leant against the wall and took a deep breath. The world was whirling about him, and he felt like he was going to be sick. Eventually he calmed and managed to stand up straight, though dull nausea still clung to his throat and stomach. Inside the sitting room Quirrel and Mrs Bright were now talking about the Ministry. He knocked cautiously on the door frame and walked in.

"Tom!" the witch exclaimed, looking surprised, "Come and sit down, dear."

She patted the seat next to her on the sofa and beamed at him.

"Now," she said, once he had been seated, "We need to talk about all the arrangements. We're offering the room for 36 Galleons a month. That includes food and laundry and all your bascic daily needs. You're trying to get a job at Boorman's, yes? Well, you're free to do what you like here, the room is yours. We do have set meal times, so I'm hoping you'll join the family for them. We don' bite, and I'm sure we'll all get along just fine. Of course, as it is my house and I have young children, there are some rules, but I'm sure you're a very well behaved young man. Is there anything else I need to talk about? My husband and I have never done this renting business before; I have no idea of the formalities."

"Well, I've never rented a room before, so we're on equal ground then," Tom said.

She looked at him keenly. "Are you interested in the room then?"

"I..." Tom threw a desperate look at Quirrel, who simply raised his eyebrows at him. He didn't know quite what to say.

"I would take it," he said courteously, "Though it does depend on whether I get a job or not."

"Of course, of course," she said, trying to sound off-hand, but looking gleeful, "We'd be delighted to have you here. If you choose to take it you'd have to write to Theodore. He's the one who understands all the legal, technical details. Oh, speak of the devil..."

Mr Bright walked into the room, two children behind him – the boy who'd shouted, and a younger girl with tear stained cheeks and grazed knees.

"Oh Amy," Mrs Bright said, sounding both worried and exasperated, "What happened now?"

"Max pushed me over," the girl snivelled, wiping her cheeks with her hands.

"I did not!" The boy – Max – cried indignantly.

"If you're not going to be nice to your sister, Max," their mother said, folding her arms, "Then maybe you won't get that broomstick you wanted."

"That's not fair!" he looked furious, and stormed out of the room. The little girl peeped shyly through her fingers at Quirrel and Tom, then promptly ran out also.

"Our youngest children," Theodore Bright said, "Amelia and Maxwell. Our eldest, Nathan, moved out a few years back. Our other two girls, Elona and Jaime, are at Hogwarts."

He looked very smug. Tom was strongly reminded of Lucius Malfoy's proud smirk when his son was born all those years ago in the other world.

"Diagon Alley!"

Everyone started and looked round at Mrs Bright, confused. Her cheeks went a little pink.

"I saw you in Diagon Alley the other week, Tom," she explained, "I knew I recognised you from somewhere."

...

Tom sat in his room at the Leaky Cauldron that evening, thinking. Quirrel said he should take the room. Perhaps he should. It was a good price. With what he could get paid at Boorman's, he'd have money left over. And the two places being so close was convenient.

They seemed like a nice enough family. Only... that was the main problem. The orphanage hadn't been a nice place. And even at Hogwarts he'd kept to himself. He'd had Marcus, but that had been a friendship built on convenience rather than a mutual liking for each other. As Voldemort he'd never been in a family environment. The idea was laughable; the Death Eaters had been his slaves, terrified of him, avoiding his gaze. He would be so out of place in the Bright household. They were all so happy and carefree, and he was... he was cold and alone.

Quirrel had said it himself; he was a strange, quiet, hostile person with a horrible past that haunted him every day. Furthermore, what about those moments when the monster inside him reared up? The moments when he just wanted to hurt people... to kill people... What if one day he snapped and lost control completely?

Nagne hooted next to him, and gently nipped his thumb. He ran his fingers through her soft feathers and rested his forehead against the smooth, cold surface of the desk. He felt so very tired. But it was so very hard to sleep.


	4. Bright in Home and Heart

I just want to say that in the last chapter I said that Max was wearing a Holyhead Harpies t-shirt. I did some research and found out that the team only has women players. I don't think Max is the kind of 10 year old boy who would support a women only team, that's not like his character, so I've changed it to Tutshill Tornados. It's not terribly important, but I thought I'd let you know anyway.

Sorry this took so long to upload, my internet has been sucky. I'm not particularly pleased with this chapter, mainly because nothing really happens. But oh well, it had to be done so as to introduce characters properly and stuff. Please review and let me know what you think!

I do not own Harry Potter.

**Chapter 4: Bright in Home and Heart**

_Marcus,_

_I listened to your advice, and have secured myself a job at Boorman's – a company that deals with magical creatures. I'm part of the Reptile Department, working under a man called Gregory Levski. I went in for an interview last week, they asked some questions and showed me around the department. I start on Monday. I'm also renting a room with a family in the town of Frennell. _

_Good to know your work is going well._

_Sincerely, Tom._

He sighed and put the letter down. It had been hard to write. He wasn't at all sure how Tom Riddle would have spoken to his 'friend'.

Tucking the parchment into an envelope, he put it to the side of the desk and leant back, looking around his new room. He'd barely made a mark on it; he didn't own much. His clothes were all neatly put away in the wardrobe, his books lined up on the shelf by the bed, and what little else he had was in the drawers of the desk.

"Hey, Riddle!"

He jumped and looked round to where Quirrel was lounging against the doorframe.

"How're you?"

"Oh, good thanks," he said, running his hand through his hair, "What are you-"

"What am I doing here?" Quirrel finished, grinning, "Vanessa invited me for dinner. Said it would be 'nice to have me round after so long.' Really it's probably to try and break the awkwardness of your first evening here."

"Ah," Tom murmured. That made a lot of sense.

"So," Quirrel looked about the room, "All settled in then?"

"Yes."

There was a moment of silence before he said, "You don't talk much, do you?"

"Um... no," Tom said hesitantly.

Quirrel snorted as Mr Bright's head appeared round the door.

"Okay boys, dinner will be served soon."

They followed him down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Mrs Bright was bustling around by the oven, and the children were sitting at the table. Max glanced at them when they came in, then went back to staring aimlessly at the ceiling and drumming on the table with his fingers. Amy smiled shyly at Tom. He blinked at her, then managed to pull up the corners of his mouth into what he hoped resembled an amiable smile. She wrinkled her nose and looked away, her cheeks going a little pink.

"Do sit down, dears," Vanessa said kindly.

Tom just stood there until Quirrel put his hand on his shoulder, pushed him into an empty chair, and sat next to him.

"There you go," she said, coming over to the table and spooning vegetables onto their plates, "You boys are both so thin, you need fattening up."

A look of absolute horror crossed Amy's face.

"Mum, you're not going to _eat _them?" she squealed.

"No, darling," Mrs Bright chuckled, "Don't be so silly."

The girl blushed again and stared down at the table.

Soon, everyone's plates were heaped with potatoes, beef, vegetables and gravy.

"Vanessa is a brilliant cook," Quirrel whispered to Tom, "Almost as good as the Hogwarts house elves!"

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," she said smiling, as she herself sat down, "Well, everyone, tuck in."

Tom ate in silence and listened as Quirrel struck up a conversation about St. Mungo's with Mr Bright, who was a healer there.

"So you're going to be working at Boorman's, Tom?" the man said after a while.

"Oh, yes," Tom said.

Then seeing Quirrel give him a meaningful glare, he added, "In the Reptile Department."

"That's interesting," Mrs Bright said, "What kind of things will you be doing?"

"Well, um, I know all the basic things I'll have to do, like look after the reptiles, keep data logs, check that everything is in its place-"

"Everything too boring for everyone else to do," Quirrel put in with a snigger.

"Mr Levski, the head of the department," Tom continued, "Said they were needing a report on all the snakes, their behavioural habits and things like that. Which is what I'll be doing as well-"

"Woo snakes!" Quirrel interrupted once more, "Slytherin pride!"

He held his hand up in the air, and Tom recognised the gesture from his time at school. He high-fived him, attempting a cheerful smile, though inside he felt incredibly awkward, and part of him wanted to just run away from this table full of nice, ordinary people.

"You were in Slytherin?" Max asked, looking interested for the first time during the meal, "Is it a good house? I don't know what one I want to be in?"

"Slytherin is the best house," Quirrel said, nodding at him.

"Well that's what Nathan said about Gryffindor. And Elona and Jaime are in Ravenclaw. But I don't know what one I will be. Ernie said that Slytherin is for all the horrible people," he added, looking sheepish.

"That's just all those silly rumours, Max," Mrs Bright said, "Because people like that Morfin Gaunt and Rodolphus Lestrange were Slytherins. But don't judge them all because of what a few of them have done. Think about Elektra Prince. She was in Slytherin, and she's a lovely girl. One of the best Aurors the Ministry has. And that Lucius Malfoy who works with the Minister. He seems like a nice, polite young man. Besides, Quirrel and Tom were both in Slytherin, and they're not horrible people are they?"

Tom felt a rush of guilt and that familiar feeling of nausea. Thankfully, nobody noticed as Quirrel was saying, "Ernie who? Macmillan? Wasn't he put in _Hufflepuff_? So why would you listen to him?"

"There's nothing wrong with Hufflepuffs," Mr Bright said sternly.

"Well I don't think I'll be one," Max said, folding his arms, "Maybe I'll be in Gryffindor like Nathan. I can't wait until I get my letter in the summer!"

"When will I get my letter?" Amy asked quietly.

"Not until after you're eleven, honey," her mother said kindly.

"You might _not_ get one," Max said, "You might be a squib-"

"Max!" Mrs Bright snapped as Amy's blue eyes filled with tears and she whispered indignantly, "I'm not a squib!"

"Quirrel, could you pass the gravy please?" Mr Bright said loudly.

The evening passed without much incident. Quirrel, Mr Bright and Mrs Bright talked about everything from Quidditch to the Minister of Magic. Tom spoke when asked a question, but he offered no opinions, just listened. He found it quite refreshing to just sit and let their conversation wash over him. They didn't speak of war or death. They seemed content just to spend time in one another's company and talk of nothing in particular. Tom found that his memories didn't bother him as much in those few hours. They were still present, yes, but they had drifted to the very back of his mind, where they gathered into a dense muddle and buzzed away angrily. He couldn't forget them. He could _never_ forget them. But at least for the moment he wasn't reliving them along with that sickening feeling of guilt and disgust at himself.

The youngest Bright child, Max, sat in the corner of the sitting room after their meal, ignoring his family in favour of a book titled _Legend of the Tornados: Quidditch League._ Amy curled up on the sofa next to her mother, and it was only when she yawned widely that Mrs Bright ordered her children off to bed.

Soon after, Theodore Bright had to leave for his night shift at St. Mungo's. As he left, pulling on his lime green robes, Quirrel took it as a good time to depart also.

"Say hello to your mother from us, dear," Mrs Bright said.

"She'll take that well," he said, with a small burst of laughter, "It'll just start her off about blood traitors and muggle-borns."

"It's always nice to be polite," she said stiffly.

"You tell her that. See you round, Riddle."

Now left alone with Vanessa Bright, Tom was struck suddenly by the realisation that he was _living_ with these people now. He'd be spending most of his time with them; he couldn't just shut himself away all day like a sulking child. A slight panic arose in him. _What the heck am I supposed to say to them? God, I don't know how to do this._

Vanessa seemed to sense his discomfort, for she smiled kindly and said, "I suppose you'll be wanting to get along now, and sort everything out in your room. You're starting work tomorrow, so I suggest you get yourself a good night's sleep, dear."

Relief flowed through him, and as it did so he realised how tired he was. There was a dull throbbing behind his eyes, and he wondered if he looked like he hadn't had much sleep over the past few weeks.

"Ok, yeah, I'd better be..." he said, beginning up the stairs.

"Goodnight Tom."

A few seconds later he turned round.

"Mrs Bright?"

"Yes?"

"Just... thank you. For the room and... everything. I'm really grateful."

And he meant it. It was strange - he couldn't remember having felt this much gratitude to another human being for a long time. Somewhere inside of him an angry voice muttered '_weakness'._

"That's alright, dear," Mrs Bright said gently, and though she smiled at him, her eyes looked sad.

...

Tom woke the next morning, showered, dressed, and when he felt he could avoid it no longer, went downstairs. Mrs Bright was in the kitchen making some porridge, and she beamed when she saw him in the doorway.

"Good morning Tom. Sleep well?"

"Yes," he lied.

He had tossed and turned until the early hours, as was normal since his death and 'rebirth'. But he had to admit that when he had finally dropped off, the nightmares had not been as bad as they usually were.

"What would you like for breakfast, dear?" Mrs Bright said cheerily, "Porridge? Toast?"

"Uh... just some toast, please."

He sat gingerly down at the table, noticing that the girl, Amy, was sitting across from him. Her light brown hair was ruffled, and there was a streak of jam on her cheek. As soon as she met his eye, she blushed and stared down at her toast. Tom wondered whether this would be her response whenever she saw him. It reminded him of the children in the orphanage, and how they had been scared of him.

"There you go," Vanessa said, putting some toast down in front of him, "Butter and jam is all on the table. Would you like tea?"

"Yes please."

He ate and drank in silence. Mrs Bright hummed to herself as she bustled round the kitchen, moving dishes and cutlery around, folding laundry and placing it in a basket. Eventually, looking at the clock that hung over the fireplace, he stood up to leave.

"You going now, dear?" she said, collecting up his plate and mug, "Well, good luck. Don't be too nervous, I'm sure you'll do fine."

He nodded and let himself out of the front door, then let the smile fall from his face. _Come on,_ he thought furiously, _in the other world you were confident. You could walk into places with authority. People respected you. Remember Borgin and Burke's. You can do this._

He stood up straight and held his head high. It wasn't until he got the gate outside Boorman's that he faltered, stopping still and looking at it. A distinct image of the building set alight, disappearing in a storm of crimson flames, appeared in his mind. Bile rose in his throat. His clenched fists were trembling.

"Are you Tom?"

He jumped and reached for his wand, turning his head sharply. A small, thin woman with wispy hair was standing nearby. She had wide watchful eyes and was wearing shabby grey robes.

"Tom Riddle?" she asked hesitantly.

He nodded once.

"Oh," she looked relieved, "I was told there was a new person, and I didn't recognise you, so... I'm Prisca. Prisca Wilkes. I work in the Reptile Department too."

She held out her hand and he shook it politely. Something about her twitchy, anxious demeanour made him want to laugh.

They walked up the pathway together; the gate did not question his business this time – there must have been some charm on it to recognise employees.

"So, you finished Hogwarts last year then?" Prisca asked.

"Yes."

"I finished eight years ago, myself, but I only started working here five years ago," she gabbled, "I did enjoy Hogwarts. Dumbledore is a funny, old character isn't he? I didn't care much for Professor Slughorn, though. What house were you in?"

"Slytherin."

"Oh," she gave a nervous, high-pitched laugh, "I was a Hufflepuff. I didn't know much about the houses before. I'm a muggle-born, see. I never expected to be a witch. That was a mighty shock. But Hogwarts was lovely. What do you think of Boorman?"

She spoke rather fast, and it took Tom a few seconds to realise she'd asked him a question.

"I... I don't know. He seems nice, I guess."

"Oh, yes, rather," she nodded enthusiastically and emitted another peal of shaky laughter, "I suppose he is. Very curious man. Very curious. I don't talk to him much myself. I find him rather intimidating."

They reached the doors of the building, and once more Tom found himself walking the purple carpet towards the reception desk.

"I suppose I should show you to the department," Prisca said, "I mean, I know you must have come in for an interview, but obviously you can't know your way around straight away. And... oh look, here's Rita."

The blonde witch sitting at the desk raised a slender eyebrow as they approached, tapping her fingers on the wooden surface. Tom noticed that her nails were now painted a deep shade of purple.

"G-good morning Rita," Prisca said, her voice rising a few octaves.

"Prisca," Rita said, with a sickly smile, "Delightful to see you. And how was your weekend?"

"Very nice, thank you," she said timidly, "Y-yours?"

"Oh, a bit of this and that," Rita trilled, "And you're Tom Riddle. First day here, yes?"

Tom nodded stiffly.

"Well, do have fun," she said, sounding as though she imagined he'd have nothing of the sort, "Don't let the snakeys bite."

The way she watched them walk past with a steely glint in her eye made Tom feel uneasy. There was something quite unpleasant about her.

...

The Reptile House was a huge area located in the basement of the building. The walls were rough and grey, stretching up a great height, and an enchanted glowing orb hung at the very top, casting a cold, white light over everything. There were doors and windows placed at even intervals all around, the ones above ground level to be reached by large ladders attached to rails along the walls. Tom had counted five stories to the place. There was an eerie hissing, whispering noise – only just loud enough to hear.

The offices were on the ground level; tall wooden doors with metal signs on the front. _Gregory Levski – Head of Department. Arcus Harrow - Ministry Relations. Prisca Wilkes – Law. Thorfinn Toke – International._ And he'd been surprised to see that the last door already read _Tom Riddle – Junior Assistant._

This office was where he sat now. It was plain, containing nothing but a desk, chair and some old filing cabinets. The only interesting thing of note was a grey snakeskin tacked to the wall, obviously put there at some point by the last person who'd worked in the room, and hadn't been taken down.

Mr Levski, a small man with slicked silver hair and enormous square glasses, had pointed out a few rooms and their occupants to him, then given him a stack of parchment containing a list of duties, various maps and inventories, and sets of figures, references and calculations.

Tom sighed and rested his head on the desk, closing his eyes. This was it then. He'd done it. Started a new life. He had somewhere to live and a place to work. And there were no cruel intentions or violent motives behind it all. The Brights were a nice family. An _ordinary_ family. Tom still had a twinge of guilt deep in his stomach, telling him it was wrong of him to be amongst them. They had trusted him enough to live in their home with them... and they didn't know who he was. What he had done! A horrible thought sprung into his mind.

_What if, in the other world, I had killed them? What if I had torn their family apart, murdered their children, tortured them?_

Maybe his Death Eaters had killed Theodore Bright in one of the wars. Maybe their children had been at Hogwarts when they'd attacked. He saw an image of High Frennell Hall, the roof caved in, the thatch burning, the Dark Mark hanging over it like some foreboding spectator, listening to the screams of the people within. He saw Vanessa struggling from the wreckage and collapsing in the withered grass as his servants descended. He saw Amy's small, limp body crumpled under the fallen bricks and tiles, crimson blood dripping from under her mousey hair.

Tom leapt from his seat as if recoiling from something hideous that lay on the desk. His head was spinning and he stumbled to the wall, leaning against it, not trusting his legs to hold him up. He felt a huge urge to vomit, cry and laugh all at the same time. Most of him was repulsed at himself. A surge of guilt ran through him like a tremor. This was so real... so very real... _what had he done?_

But a small part of him cackled with a fierce, intense laughter.

He slumped to the floor and put his head in his hands, willing himself not to cry.

_I'm a monster._


	5. Snowflakes and Nightmares

Okay, I'm going on holiday literally right after I post this, so there won't be any updates until after Harry Potter.

I AM SO FUDGING EXCITED I COULD DIE. OH MY WIZARD GOD!

Did you see the Premiere? "Hogwarts will always be there to welcome you home." I burst into tears :')

Anyhoo, please review :D

**Chapter 5: Snowflakes and Nightmares**

As May passed into June and July, the weather grew steadily hotter, then plunged once more into a dismal week of heavy rain. Tom had now settled into his 'new life'. Though he spent meal times and several evenings a week with the Brights, they tended to leave him to his own business. Mr Bright asked him about work, and occasionally discussed the news, and Mrs Bright chatted idly to him whenever she saw him, asking how his day had been with a cheerful smile. Max didn't seem to spend much time in the house, so Tom only ever saw him at dinner times. When the boy did speak to him it was usually a throw-away question about Hogwarts or Quidditch, and seeing as Tom didn't have much to do with the latter, that line of conversation quickly dried up. The youngest girl, Amy, was very shy and never spoke to him.

In late June, the eldest son came for dinner. Nathan was in his mid-twenties, tall and athletic with short dark hair, and worked in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. He politely asked Tom about Boorman's, and joked about living with his family, but that was all.

Quirrel was a frequent visitor, turning up at the door once or twice a week. Once he even spent the night sleeping on one of the sofas in the living room, having appeared a few hours earlier with a bitter expression, muttering angrily about his mother and 'some stupid, blood obsessed relatives'. Mrs Bright was always happy to see him, and invited him round for dinner whenever she could.

Tom had not forgotten what Quirrel had said about feeling sorry for him, and how he looked 'tortured'. He tried to appear more lively and friendly, but when he looked at the man's face he couldn't help but remember what he had done to him in the _other life_.

But that did not stop the fact that Quirrel always came to see him, spoke to him amiably, and seemed genuinely interested in talking to him. Tom was grateful for that. He guessed it made him feel happy.

Though a heavy guilt sat in his stomach constantly, the urges to attack people were growing less frequent and less strong. He supposed it was either because of the time he was spending around such jovial, normal people, or because he was moving away in time from his 'death'. He still had nightmares full of murder and anger and pain and flashes of green light. He started casting a Silencing Shield around his room before he went to sleep, lest he scream or cry out – and he felt weak and ashamed to even admit that to himself.

He absorbed himself in his work at Boorman's. Although many of his tasks were small and menial, they kept him busy. He spent several hours a day checking each and every enclosure, seeing that the inhabitants were okay, the temperature was at the right level, the safety charms were all intact, and the food supplies were not lacking.

In the middle of June a shipment of Salamanders arrived from Mexico, for which he had to fill out a stack of files and documents 6 inches high, and at the beginning of July three poisonous snakes tore a fourth apart and devoured it. Tom was sent in to ask why, and was told a long and complicated story about insulting some ancestors and the rainforests of Peru.

Gregory Levski didn't seem at all wary of the fact that his new employee was a Parselmouth – in fact, he acted like it was completely normal, as though Tom had announced he had a particular skill for chess. Arcus Harrow and Thorfinn Toke, a pair of muscular mean-looking men, the latter covered in scars and burns, simply eyed him with a looks of interest and mistrust. Though that was not abnormal; they had silently watched Tom through narrowed eyes ever since he'd started working with them. Prisca Wilkes just laughed in her nervous, wavering way and said, "I once met a man who said he could talk to snakes. He told me that they like telling raunchy jokes, but I think he was drunk, so I don't expect it's true."

...

"Tom dear, we're off now," Mrs Bright said, putting her head round the door of his room, "Amy's staying behind. She's refusing to have some Pepper Up Potion, and I can't take her to London if she's ill. So she's in bed in her room. I'm not asking you to watch her, it's just so you know she's there. Sorry about this."

"No, it's okay," Tom said, who - not having to go into work that day - was sitting in the armchair reading a book he'd found at work about deadly European snakes.

"Alright then," she smiled warmly at him, "We'll be back in a few hours. Goodbye."

"Bye, Mrs Bright."

It was the last day of the Hogwarts year, and the family were going to King's Cross to collect their two eldest girls. Tom knew a little about them from what he had heard in family discussions. Elona was a bright girl who had just finished her NEWTs and was expected to do superbly in them. Jaime was at the end of her fourth year, and although clever like her sister she seemed to get herself into a fair bit of trouble. A week or so after Tom began staying with the Brights they received a letter from the school listing the number of detentions she had received for being in the corridors after hours, damaging school property, arguing with teachers, and apparently locking some second year students in the trophy room with a temperamental Boggart.

A sharp tapping made Tom look up from his book to see Nagne hovering impatiently outside. He jumped up to open the window and she flew in, shaking rain water everywhere.

"Don't do that," he muttered, handing her a crust of toast he'd saved for her from breakfast.

She snatched it from his fingers and gazed expectantly at him with dark eyes.

"I don't have any letters for you to deliver," he said.

She hooted reproachfully and shot back at the window, presumably to the attic at the right side of the house, which she shared with the Bright's Great Grey, Morin.

He pulled the window shut, cutting out the sound of the rain, and settled back into the chair with his book.

Forty minutes later, and several chapters on, the shower had ceased (no doubt to pick up again in a few hours time). Tom was bored. Part of him wondered where Quirrel was, and whether he'd turn up later that day. As interesting as the book was, it had reminded him of Nagini, which in turn had reminded him of Death Eater meetings and killings and that sickening surge of guilt. He put the book down and ran his fingers wearily over his face. His sleeping pattern had nowhere near improved over the past weeks; though perhaps his tiredness was more emotional than physical.

"Tom?" whispered a quiet voice.

His head snapped up fast. Amy was peering shyly round the doorframe, holding a teddy bear in her arms. Her cheeks had taken on their usual blush, but behind it her skin was pale and her eyes red.

"C-can I... sit in here... with y-you?" she said, and her bottom lip trembled slightly.

"Uh... yeah," he said, surprised.

She shuffled slowly in, her feet in fluffy blue slippers.

"Um..." he looked around his room and gestured weakly to the bed, unsure of what to do or say.

She sat down on it, tucking her legs under herself and hugging the teddy close, half hiding her face behind it. She looked like she had been crying, though whether because she was ill or because she hadn't been able to go to London with her family, or both, he didn't know.

What could he say to her? He should say_ something_...

"Um... do you feel better?" he asked cautiously.

She shook her head glumly, staring at the floor.

He stared frantically round the room, as if something would spring to life and give him inspiration.

"What... ah... what's the matter?"

"My tummy hurts," she muttered, "And my head. And my nose is all blocked up. And I want my mum."

As her eyes filled with tears he plucked at the edge of the chair and did some very quick thinking.

What had they done at the orphanage when a kid felt ill? They gave them some medicine. But Mrs Bright had said she was refusing that. The thing that made most sense was to try and take her mind off of it.

"Uh... do you like magic?" he asked, going and sitting cross-legged next to her on the bed.

She nodded nervously then added, "But mummy and daddy are always too busy to show me any."

"You want to see some now?"

She nodded.

He took out his wand and flicked it. Bright red streamers appeared in mid-air, gathering and winding themselves into the shape of an eagle which flapped its huge wings and snapped its beak. She gasped and pulled her bear away from her face, mouth hanging open.

With another quick movement of his wand the streamers became a great ship that rose and fell on the waves, sails billowing. Another swish and a magnificent stallion galloped around the room. She squealed and clapped her hands. Obeying the instructions he was muttering under his breath, the horse pranced over to her and extended its nose. She reached out to pet it, her face lighting up. As the ribbons twisted away and vanished into nothingness, she turned to him with wide eyes.

"Can you do anything else?"

At once her teddy bear leapt up, performed a rapid polka on the floor, turned several somersaults, bowed deeply, and jumped back into her arms. She held it away from her and stared at it in awe.

"Avis," he whispered, and a flock of little blue birds fluttered around the room, singing shrilly. She watched them with a huge grin on her face.

Tom suddenly found that he was smiling too, and genuine warm, buoyant feeling had filled him. That smile grew wider as, with another wave of his wand, large snowflakes started to fall from the ceiling and Amy began to giggle, holding up her little hands to catch them. It was like her joy and excitement was somehow diffusing out from her and into him, like an infection. Something inside his chest swelled, like a balloon, and his life and memories didn't seem so bad anymore. And for the first time in many years Tom was able to say he felt happy.

An hour or so later there was the distinct sound of voices coming up the path, and the opening of the front door.

"They're back, they're back!" Amy squealed, jumping up from where she had been lying on Tom's floor, "Come on Tom, let's go say hello."

She grabbed a tortoise that Tom had transfigured and hurried to the door. He muttered several quick spells, the remnants of the snow and ribbons and bubbles he had conjured vanished, along with the blue birds that had been circling the lamp, and then followed her down the stairs.

"Look mummy, look!" she cried, running in and thrusting the tortoise into Mrs Bright's hands.

"You're feeling better then," she laughed, though she was frowning at the tortoise, obviously wondering where it had come from.

Amy skipped back to where Tom was hovering at the foot of the stairs, grabbed his hand with both of hers and dragged him into the living room.

"Tom was doing magic!" she announced, "He made it snow and we had tiny little fireworks and then he made his books fly around his room and he turned my trinket box into a tortoise!"

"Did he indeed?" Mr Bright said, chuckling as he set a trunk down on the floor.

"Yes, and now I feel loads better!" Amy finished happily.

"Well that's good, and I'm glad you had fun," Mrs Bright smiled, then looked up at Tom and mouthed the words 'thank you' at him.

He shrugged and smiled, as if to say it was nothing.

"So _you're_ Tom, then," a voice said.

He looked past Mr Bright to where a girl was standing and looking at him with interest. She had short, dark messy hair and was holding a dazed looking cat in her arms. A girl who looked like an older version of Amy was just behind her, also watching him.

"Ah yes, well, this is Jaime and Elona," Mr Bright said, pointing to them respectively, "Girls, this is our lodger Tom Riddle."

"I remember you," the girl who'd spoken before – Jaime – said, "You had Transfiguration before I did last year, and your friend was the one who got into a fight with Anthony Goldstein."

"Uh... yeah," Tom said. He couldn't honestly say he remembered _her_, though he definitely recognised her sister from around Hogwarts.

"Nice to meet you," Elona said as she shifted her trunk to the side so Max could get past.

He bounded into the room, yelling, "Come on Jaime we can race now!"

Jaime flung open her trunk and pulled out a broomstick, "There is no way you can win, squirt. Just you try."

"My new broom is really really _really_ fast," he said excitedly, "I've been practising since Christmas."

"Yeah, and I've been doing training several times a week for two years, so obviously I will beat you by miles!"

"Great job you did too, that's why we won the Quidditch Cup this year," Elona said sarcastically.

"That was Colin's fault," Jaime snapped as she headed out towards the kitchen after her brother, "And if Slytherin had beaten Gryffindor we would have had it in the bag!"

"Dinner will be in an hour!" Mrs Bright shouted after her as she ran into the garden.

"I'm going to unpack," Elona said, levitating her trunk up the stairs and following it.

Mr Bright disappeared into the kitchen and Amy chased after him, asking whether she could keep the tortoise, where it could live, what they liked to eat...

"Thanks for keeping Amy occupied," Mrs Bright said warmly, patting Tom's arm, "You didn't have to."

"Oh, it's fine," he muttered, embarrassed, "Um... how was London?"

"Busy," she said, "Took a while to get onto the Platform; a group of Muggles where just standing there, on their tefe... telephones. Funny things, aren't they?"

He smiled in assent, as she sighed and stared at her Jaime's trunk – still lying on the living room floor.

"It's strange to think my girl is all grown up now and won't be going back to Hogwarts," she said quietly, "I remember her first day. She was so nervous, but wouldn't stop talking about it for weeks. She used to write every week telling us all about her lessons and what she had been up to... Oh, just listen to me!"

She laughed and shook her head, "Well, I better be getting on with it. Dinner in an hour, dear."

She turned into the kitchen, and as she went he thought he saw her wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

He began up the stairs back to his room, thinking he'd perhaps read some more of the book. As he reached the second landing, something small and hard collided with his ankles.

"Howard, no!"

As the girl, Elona, burst out her bedroom door he looked down to see the small, tabby cat roll away from his feet, mewling furiously.

"Sorry," she said, "She hated being cooped up on the train, and Jaime thought it would be clever to put a Sleeping Charm on her, and now she's gotten all over-excited."

"Wait..." Tom blurted out, confused, "Howard? She?"

"Yeah," Elona laughed as she scooped the cat off the floor, "We all thought she was a boy when we got her. By the time we realised otherwise she wouldn't answer to anything else."

She held the cat up so it was looking at Tom.

"What do you think?" she said to it, "Acceptable lodger? You going to be nice to him?"

Howard purred contentedly.

"I think that's a yes," Elona smiled at him, "Well, have my family been treating you alright?"

"Uh... yeah," Tom said awkwardly, "It's very nice here."

"And you work at..."

"Boorman's," he nodded.

"Yeah, mum mentioned it when she wrote saying they'd got a lodger. I met Boorman once, and I didn't like him very much. But you enjoy working there?"

"Yeah, it's good."

"Cool. Well, I'll get on with my unpacking, and... uh, I'll be seeing you later, then."

He nodded once more, then headed back up to his room as she slipped into hers and shut the door.

Dinner that evening was a loud and cheerful affair. Jaime was relaying to Max everything she could remember about the Quidditch matches she'd played – she was a Ravenclaw Chaser – and he was listening with avid interest, shooting questions at her about everything and anything. Elona was being grilled by her parents about the exams, and whenever she could Amy would ask about magic they'd learnt or what Hogwarts castle was like (she seemed particularly interested in the Giant Squid). Tom listened and ate in silence, not a part of the family's joy at being reunited for the summer, though he did have a fairly long discussion with Theodore Bright and Elona about her Transfiguration NEWT.

By the end of the meal Max was drawing a Quidditch pitch in the gravy on his plate, Elona and Amy were feeding slices of chicken to Howard under the table, and Mr Bright was listening half-heartedly as his wife lectured Jaime on why she shouldn't set off firecrackers in the Great Hall.

Tom was thinking. Thinking about the family and their relationship and how they all functioned perfectly together, despite their differences. Mrs Bright was so warm and caring, taking an interest in her children's lives, wanting what was best for them. Elona and Jaime appeared very close, like they had plenty of in-jokes about their lives at Hogwarts, though Elona was more sensible and Jaime was very loud and energetic. Max, despite being the only boy present, looked up to his family, especially Jaime. Amy, though quiet and timid, was the baby of everyone, and Elona seemed to be particularly fond of her. And Mr Bright was like a constant force, holding them all together with a stern look or a kind word, earning a deep respect and affection from all of them.

Tom felt a bit like a trespasser who had somehow wormed his way into this tightly knit unit. It hurt him inside to know that there would have been families like this in his past world, and it had been _he_ who would have torn them apart and caused fear and enmity between them.

"Tom, are you alright dear?" Vanessa Bright asked suddenly, jolting him out of his musings.

"Yes, thank you," he smiled, and she beamed at him.

That night he dreamt that he was standing in the broken, smouldering remains of High Frennell Hall watching as Mrs Bright tried to shield her eldest children behind her, clutching Amy's cold, limp form to her chest. He raised his skeletal hand, wand out, hearing his Death Eaters laughing madly behind him. He woke up shaking wildly, tears pouring down his cheeks.


	6. New Friends and Old Servants

Okay, yes, I haven't updated in ages, and I am very sorry. I haven't been home very much over the past few weeks. And I'm a lazy bum. I apologise.

And a quick message to Seabirdicat and everyone else as well, so read this. Yes, I guess Tom's change of heart is a bit much, and I've been worrying about this myself anyways. But the best way to explain this, I feel, is in numbers (I love math, okay!). My Tom Riddle is ¼ crazy, Muggle-hating psycho-killer, ¼ Voldemort feeling very bad for what he did, and ½ Tom Riddle who never hated Muggles and never wanted to kill anyone. So add that all up, and you get Tom Riddle who is pretty much indifferent to Muggles – he doesn't hate them, but doesn't like them either – and just wants to be a normal kid. But never fear, you will get some old Voldemort coming through with sadistic and violent tendencies. He will be back! (Is that a spoiler?) And main plot/storyline pretty much starts now. I'm basically finished with introductory chapters.

Anyways, please review, tell me what you liked, I'd be very grateful :)

**Chapter 6 – New Friends and Old Servants**

"Excellent, the man we've all been waiting for!"

Tom froze as Quirrell leapt up from the sofa and gestured elaborately towards him.

"Um... what?" he asked, shutting the front door behind him.

"Come on, chop chop!" Quirrell said, as he marched over to Tom and began to push him towards the stairs, "I've got it all arranged, so don't make me wait any longer."

"You didn't even tell him, did you?" said Jaime, who leaning against the kitchen doorframe chewing on a Sugar Quill.

"Nope," Quirrell said cheerfully, propelling Tom up the stairs.

"What's going on?" he asked, as they reached the second floor.

"I'm taking you out."

"Taking... wait, _what_?"

"Well, seeing as we're now friends," Quirrell explained brightly, "And because I'm such a great guy, I am inviting you to come and hang out."

"Hang out?" Tom repeated warily.

"God Riddle, you can't stay in your room all the time like some self-conscious, pubescent girl," he shoved Tom into his bedroom, "Get changed out of your work robes. Wear something casual and Muggle-ish. I'll stay out here and give you some privacy – I'm not _that_ weird. Quickly now, we're on a schedule."

And with a smug grin, he shut the door. Tom stared blankly at the wood for a few seconds, before turning slowly around and pulling off his robes. It seemed there was no way of getting out of it. Despite Quirrell's recurring presence in the Bright household and in Tom's company, Tom had never considered what they had a _friendship_. Was it? He didn't know. If Quirrell considered him a friend, maybe he was.

And how was one meant to behave when 'hanging out'? He didn't know how to do this. He couldn't talk to people or spend time with them or hang out, as it were. Perhaps if he jumped out the window and ran away... but no. He refused to run. He had to try and live this new life. That was his aim, wasn't it? That was why he was here.

Part of him wanted to laugh at how stupid and petty he was being. He put on a plain t-shirt, shoved a couple of Galleons and his wand into the pocket of his jeans, took a deep breath and opened the door. He _was_ going to be normal. This was his normal life and he was a normal kid hanging out with his normal friend. And that was the end of it.

"Good, now come on," Quirrell said, already bounding down the stairs two at a time.

"You're leaving now then?" Mrs Bright called from the kitchen as they arrived downstairs.

"Yeah," Quirrell answered, "That okay?"

"Of course dear," she said cheerily, "Goodness, the house will seem empty now with you and Elona out."

"Elona's gone out too?" Quirrell asked.

"Yes, she's gone over to the Davis's for the night."

Quirrell turned and winked at Tom, who stared back feeling like he was missing out on something important.

"Okay, well I'll make sure Riddle gets back to you in one piece at some point in the evening."

"As long as you're not too loud when you get back," she said, popping her head round the door, a saucepan in one hand, wand in the other, "You have fun, dears."

"Will do," Quirrell said, turning into the living room, "Oh, and I forgot to ask... we're gonna need to borrow one of your brooms for Tom. Is that alright?"

"Yes, yes," she said, "Take one of the Cleansweeps. And I'll see you later."

"Bye!" Quirrell called, already out the front door.

"Uh... bye," Tom said.

"Goodbye dear," Mrs Bright smiled warmly at him, then returned to the kitchen.

Outside, Quirrell held a broom out to Tom.

"You _can_ fly, right?"

"Yes," he said, taking it from him.

"Good, then follow me."

He climbed onto his own and shot off round the side of the house. Tom followed as fast as he could – though he had never owned his own broom, he had occasionally taken one of the school ones and flown about the grounds when he'd wanted some peace and quiet.

He caught up with Quirrell as they flew over the forest at the far end of the Bright's garden.

"Okay," Quirrell said in a business-like manner, "You have been cordially invited to join our summer night gatherings. I was the one who suggested it because, frankly, I like you. You're an alright guy. Frankie was all for it. Elona said 'why not?' So now the Three Musketeers become the Four... something-or-others. And you have no choice in the matter."

"Shall I just pretend I know what you're talking about?" Tom asked.

Quirrell sighed. "Basically, this is an age old tradition. Well, five or so years anyway. Me and Elona Bright and Frankie Davis meet up once a week in the summer holidays and hang out. Yes, before you ask, we do lie to Vanessa and Theodore about it. A few years ago they wouldn't have approved. A guy like me hanging out with two younger girls in the woods at night. I don't think they'd mind so much now, we're all adults. And it's not like we get up to anything criminal. But if we told Mr and Mrs Bright, they'd mention it to Frankie's parents. Which would be bad because her dad _really_ doesn't like me."

"So, I-"

"Yes, you've been invited to join us. As long as you promise not to tell. And especially not to Jaime, because then she'd want to come. And she can't keep her mouth shut for toffee. Think yourself privileged, Riddle, this is the highest of honours we're offering you."

"Right," Tom said, wondering whether he was supposed to be taking Quirrell seriously or not.

They touched down at the foot of a hill were the trees started to thin. Shouldering their brooms the two of them began to walk up the hill, thorns and thistles snagging on their jeans, birds and small rodents bursting out of the undergrowth as they passed.

"Where are we going?" Tom asked.

"Just a bit further up," Quirrell said, "We'd have flown all the way, but if we'd gone any higher on brooms there would be a high risk of a Muggle seeing us. I know from experience. Got into a fair bit of trouble for that."

He chuckled and jumped lightly over a fallen branch.

They hadn't gone much further when a voice called out, "They're nearly here!"

There was a peal of laughter, then a sharp _crack_ and someone apparated right in front of them.

It was a small, skinny girl with short blonde hair, the tips dyed green. She was wearing patched denim shorts and a bright orange t-shirt bearing the motif '_Because the Hippogriff says so!'_

"QUIRRELL!" she shrieked, and practically jumped on him.

"Hey Frankie!" he hugged her back, laughing, "Long time, no see. How're you?"

"I'm brilliant, yourself?"

"Good, yeah."

She stepped back from him grinning and looked at Tom.

"And you must be Tom?" she said, holding out her hand.

"Yes, Tom Riddle," he shook it awkwardly.

"I recognise you," she said, "Your friend was the one who had a fight with Anthony Goldstein."

"Yes," Tom sighed. Why did people always remember him from Marcus and the Ravenclaw boy's fight? He hadn't even got involved, he'd just _been_ there.

"That was before I dated Anthony," she said, "So be thankful I wasn't there to hex your scrawny butts!"

The three of them began to walk through the trees up the hill.

"I'm Francesca Davis," the girl said to Tom as they went, "That's Frankie to you, and don't forget it. And I'm a Muggle-born, so you better come out with it now if you have a problem with that!"

Before Tom could say anything in response Quirrell said, "The kid was brought up in a Muggle orphanage Franks, I highly doubt he's a pure-blood maniac."

"Good, because some of you Slytherins can be right douchebags," she said defiantly.

They reached a small clearing near the top of the hill. Elona Bright was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a bonfire – the blue flames bewitched to not give out heat due to the summer weather.

"Hey guys," she waved at them, "Me and Frankie got McDonalds."

"Because Muggle junk food is the best!" Frankie sang, skipping over to her.

Tom and Quirrell followed, sitting on the ground also. Elona held out a large paper bag to Tom, and he took it with a nervous smile. Now that he was here he was losing the confidence he'd forced into himself. _What the heck was he supposed to do?_

"So, what kinds of trouble did you get into this last term?" Quirrell asked as he fished some chips out of his own bag with a satisfied smirk.

"Trouble? Us?" Frankie snorted, "Who do you think we are?"

"She set fire to the wall hangings in the common room once," Elona said, "And turned Professor Flitney's hat into a gerbil."

"Well sorry we can't all be Miss Perfect-Do-No-Wrong-Clever-Puss," Frankie retorted, and Elona punched her playfully on the shoulder.

Quirrell laughed, "And how many boyfriends did you have this year?"

"None, for your information," she said stiffly, turning rather red.

Elona began to giggle madly, and it was Frankie's turn to smack her friend – though she did it with a bit more force and hissed, "Shut up!"

"Oh ho ho," Quirrell said, lounging against a log, "Seems like someone has a crush. Who's the poor fellow? Or has something more been going on here?"

He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Frankie's wand was in her hand within seconds. She fired off a rapid jinx, and Quirrell's nose suddenly shot out to several times its normal length. He restored it just as quickly, laughing as he did so.

"Tut tut, Miss Francesca. Just because you're of age doesn't mean you can use magic to attack people whenever you please."

She flicked her wand again, but he blocked it, still chortling.

"What I do is none of your business _Quirinus_," she said vehemently.

"So you have been doing something?" he asked.

She began to fire jets of crackling air at his feet, throwing dirt and twigs into his face. He cast several shields, and some of her spells rebounded and went straight back at her.

Elona turned to Tom, rolling her eyes.

"They're always like this," she said, "They haven't seen each other for a while; this is like their reunion."

Tom sat and listened to their playful chatter, picking at a burger, trying to work out whether he liked the fatty, greasy taste or not - he distantly recalled eating like this as a young boy at the orphanage. He felt rather like an intruder. Just when he'd become tuned to living among the Brights, he had once more found himself in the company of people so different from himself. He was out of his depth.

But Quirrell had said he was his friend. That was what he'd been aiming for in this life, wasn't it? Normality. Normal people had friends. So he had to try. He could do this. He _would_ do this. Even if he had to remind himself every day of the reason he was here. Why everything had happened the way it had.

He remembered the televisions that had been in the place between death and life. The first one where he'd had friends. Smiling and laughing. Happy. Just like the three people he was with now. And they had invited _him_ into their midst. So if he kept trying, didn't screw it all up, then maybe... just maybe he-

"TOM!"

He started, looking up so fast he cricked his neck. Frankie was giggling into her hand, and Elona and Quirrell were looking at him curiously.

"You know you just completely spaced out on us," Quirrell said, "You alright?"

"I... yeah. Just thinking."

"Right."

Elona lost interest and turned to continue her conversation with Frankie, but Quirrell continued to watch him for a while with an almost worried expression.

"You're pretty quiet," Frankie said to him a few minutes later, "Do you never talk?"

"Riddle is always quiet," Quirrell muttered.

"Leave him alone," Elona said kindly, "Here we are just sitting and babbling away like old friends-"

"We are old friends," Frankie put in.

"- so of course he's quiet. He doesn't really know us that well. It's probably quiet isolating for him. Maybe we should just include him some more."

Tom looked at her and she smiled warmly at him.

"Well hello Miss Psychiatrist," Frankie said under her breath.

"Yes," Quirrell said briskly, "What do _you_ want to talk about, Riddle?"

"I... I don't know..." he muttered, unsure of what to say having all attention suddenly on him.

"You like Quidditch?" Elona asked.

"I don't really follow it," he admitted.

"How's work?" Quirrell enquired, "Boorman treating you well?"

"It's good, I guess. I don't see him much. But I'm supposed to be going to London tomorrow to the Ministry with Arcus Harrow. So that-"

Frankie made a sudden exclamation and a mischievous grin spread across her face as they all turned to look at her.

"Hey, hey!" she said excitedly, "_Riddle_ me this: the more you have of it, the less you see."

She received nothing but silence and blank looks.

"Oh come on!" she laughed, "It's a riddle... and he's called Riddle, and-"

"Frankie, that is _terrible_!" Elona cried, as Quirrell snorted with laughter.

"I thought it was funny," she said quietly, sounding rather put-out.

"But I don't get it though," Quirrell said once he'd gathered control of himself, "What is it?"

"The more you have of it, the less you see," Elona said, "Quirrell, that is such an obvious riddle. It's not hard at all."

"Well sorry we can't all be ridiculously clever Ravenclaws," he folded his arms and frowned.

"See, this is why he was never able to get into our Common Room," Frankie grinned.

"You tried to get into their Common Room?" Tom blurted out.

"_Tried_!" Elona giggled as Quirrell shot a glare at her.

"Anyway, it's darkness," Frankie said smugly, "The more darkness, the less you can see. I can't believe you couldn't work that out dumb-arse!"

Quirrell threw a stick at her.

The four of them stayed in that spot until late in the evening. Tom was grilled about his work, then they all reminisced about their time at Hogwarts, and it was very clear that all of them had considered the place their home. Elona produced some Butterbeer and Chocolate Cauldrons from her bag, and it was long after the sun had set that Quirrell suggested they call it a night, and he and Tom parted from the girls and headed back towards High Frennell Hall.

...

"There's been an attack," Mr Bright said solemnly, unfolding the _Daily Prophet_.

"What's that dear?" Mrs Bright said from the garden where she was hanging out the laundry, not paying attention.

"See here, Tom," he said, laying out the paper on the kitchen table.

It was the following morning, and Mr Bright had just arrived home from his night shift at St. Mungo's.

"A Muggle family were murdered late last night in Shropshire," he read aloud, "Mr Jonathan Dwight, his wife Miriam, and their two young children were found dead by the Muggle police after a neighbour reported seeing strange figures enter the house... the Killing Curse... Muggle police are baffled by the circumstances... suspected Dark wizards with a hobby for attacking defenceless non-magic families... the third incident this year..."

He looked up shaking his head and frowning, "Third incident indeed. There have been a fair few attacks on Muggles this year, not just killings, which they haven't reported. We get them in St. Mungo's, having been cursed and jinxed. We set them right as best we can and modify their memories, but as far as I know they haven't caught anyone. I remember one young Muggle chap was brought in, and someone obviously had thought it'd be funny to hex his stomach and insides to three times their usual size. Poor bloke, he won't be the same again."

He turned the page with a sigh, nearly knocking the marmalade jar flying.

"Why anyone would do that..." he muttered, "Should be locked up..."

Tom said nothing and concentrated on eating his toast.

"You off to London today then, dear? To the Ministry?" Mrs Bright said cheerfully, bustling back in with an empty basket on her hip.

"Uh, yeah," he said, swallowing hastily and spluttering a little.

"Well good luck," she said, "It was nice of them to offer for you to come. Good experience. Make sure you're polite and looking smart."

Almost absent-mindedly she reached out and straightened the collar of his shirt. Then, realising what she was doing, she withdrew her hand sharply and hurried towards the stairs calling, "Amy, Max, come and get some breakfast."

Two hours later Tom stepped out of a Fireplace into the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. Hundreds of witches and wizards were hurrying across the polished wooden floor, or appearing in bursts of green flame out of the fireplaces. Arcus Harrow grunted a low "Come on," at him, and nodded his head in the direction of the golden gates, behind which the lifts were located. As they walked Tom looked up at the enormous statue that occupied the centre of the Hall.

He had never been to the Ministry in this world before, and at once he noticed a great difference. In the other world there had been the fountain of a witch and wizard surrounded by a centaur, goblin and house-elf, later to be replaced by the witch and wizard sitting atop a throne of deformed and skeletal Muggles. This statue, however, was unlike any he had seen before.

A large, golden globe, split open between the continents, was drifting slowly around in a perfect circle. Orbiting it like bizarre moons were models of gold, silver and bronze – a bearded wizard holding his wand aloft, a witch riding on a broomstick, a dragon spreading its spiked, bat-like wings, a phoenix engulfed in flames, a beautiful unicorn, silky mane rippling behind it, a galloping centaur, and a house-elf that was holding out a sign reading '_Ministry of Magic – Statue Donated by the Wizengamot in 1742'_.

"No time for staring now," Arcus Harrow snapped shortly at him.

Tom nodded and followed him towards the gates, weaving their way between wizards carrying cauldrons and witches with tottering piles of parchment. Most paid them no attention, but a few nodded at Harrow. Tom knew that the man wasn't too happy that he'd had to bring the new Junior Assistant along, but Levski had ordered it, and Boorman had backed it, so he'd had no choice in the matter.

The two of them joined the crowds thronging in the lobby, then entered a lift with about seven others, including two foreign witches with veils and a wizard with bright white, mutton-chop sideburns. The lift clattered upwards, leaving the noise of the Atrium behind.

"Level Seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club and Ludicrous Patents Office," announced a calm female voice, and when the doors slid open the two witches got out, jabbering away in rapid Dutch, followed by a few others.

"Level Six, Department of Magical Transportation, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office and Apparation Test Centre."

The remaining witches and wizards left the lift, apart from Tom, Harrow, and the wizard with the sideburns. Tom looked around uncomfortably and shuffled the papers he'd been instructed to carry. The large pocket watch hanging from the front of the wizard's robes gave a shrill squawk and cried, 'Nearly late!' Harrow shot a glare at him.

"Level Five, Department of International Magical Co-operation, incorporating the International Magical Trading Standards Body, the International Magical Office of Law and the International Confederation of Wizards, British Seats."

The doors clanged open and the wizard with the sideburns departed hastily, to be quickly replaced by a familiar figure with sweeping black robes and long blonde hair pulled back from his face.

"Arcus," he said, inclining his head in way of a greeting.

"Lucius," Harrow said as the doors shut and the lift travelled upwards once more, "What brings you here?"

"I have an audience with the Minister. Though I might ask you the same question."

"Meeting," Harrow replied shortly, "Fourth floor."

"Indeed," Malfoy said, and his grey eyes flicked over to Tom, "And who is this?"

"Tom Riddle," Harrow murmured, "Junior Assistant in the Reptile Department."

Tom set his face and met Lucius Malfoy's gaze confidently. He remembered the many occasions on which the man had grovelled before him, begging for mercy, declaring his undying allegiance, cowering on the floor in the dirt and the dust. A faithful servant, perhaps, but foolish and arrogant. Expendable. He felt his hand twitch a little towards his wand.

Something must have shown in his face; a flash of red in his eyes, possibly. Malfoy looked away, unsettled, and Tom wondered whether people were somehow linked to their other selves. It would explain things like déjà vu, or why places felt familiar and there were certain people you dislike upon sight.

"Level Four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office and Pest Advisory Bureau," the voice stated, and the doors opened once again.

Lucius Malfoy nodded curtly at Harrow, who jerked his head at Tom and walked out into the corridor beyond. Tom followed him, and as the lift moved on behind them, his lips slowly twisted into a smirk.


	7. Of Spies and Murders

(I didn't check this for spelling right before I posted it, because I'm packing and rushing and blah blah blah)

Ok, you ain't gonna get an update for a while 'cause I'm going on holiday _again_. Sorry people. Enjoy this and review please! I like reviews! Even if it's just to say you like my silly story :)

This chapter is kinda short, and it's not from Tom's point of view. Well, technically none of them are, because they're all in third person. But you know what I mean, right? There are a few which won't be, though not all of my plans are finalised yet.

**Chapter 6 – Of Spies and Murders**

It was mid-September, the sky was clear, and the sun burned down as though summer had decided to stay a little longer than usual. In a large town somewhere in the north, with rows and rows of identical terraced houses and a huge chimney belching black smoke high into the air, two women sat on a bench in a small park. Behind them several young children ran around a playground, watched closely by their mothers, and in front of them, on the other side of a road, was a row of red-brick houses.

They were both in their mid-twenties. One was wearing a faded denim jacket and a long skirt. Her hair was blonde and in a long plait. The other had short, dark hair, a dark t-shirt, jeans and lace-up boots. A newspaper was open on her lap, but she wasn't reading it.

"I feel so exposed," the blonde one muttered, pulling at the sleeve of her jacket.

"It's not the best arrangement, I agree," the one with the paper said, "But what else is there to do?"

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes.

"You think someone would notice us if we sat here all day," the blonde one said suddenly.

"People can be surprisingly unobservant," her companion said, and she turned a page of the newspaper but still did not look at it.

There was another long pause.

"Blaina, I don't think anyone's in there," she hissed, fiddling with the end of her plait.

"Well he'll have to come home at some point, won't he Ivy?" Blaina said, idly turning another page, her eyes on a house opposite them.

"What if he's just some guy, though?" Ivy said, looking up and down the street with narrowed eyes, "What if this is a waste of time?"

"I profiled him myself," Blaina said, and her voice took on a hardened tone, "I tailed him in London. He was seen with Mulciber and Nott. Definitely a suspect."

"Yeah, I know, sorry. It's just... it's a strange place for one of them to live. Know what I mean?"

Blaina nodded, "Yes. Yes, I do."

"Unless," Ivy said thoughtfully, "Unless... because it doesn't make sense, it's a perfect disguise. He wouldn't be suspected."

"That's what Kingsley said," Blaina chewed on her lip, "And he's pretty certain this guy is behind some of the attacks."

"It's disgusting," Ivy snapped, "Treating them like animals to be hunted. Like a sport. Bloody bigotry and discrimination."

There was another long pause, and they continued to watch the house.

"I had a reporter trying to ask me questions the other day," Ivy spoke up again, "They're getting really inquisitive."

"Sebastian shouldn't have told them all that stuff," Blaina said.

"He told them what they already suspected, he only confirmed it. It won't be long now until they create a big fuss about how we're not investigating properly, not working hard enough to stop it-"

"Bloody fool!" Blaina snapped loudly, causing a woman in the play park to look up sharply and shepherd her child away.

They lapsed into silence once more. Ivy resumed twirling the end of her plait round and round her fingers.

After ten or so minutes, she spoke again.

"So we get here at 10:30am, taking over from John and Angie. Shift ends at quarter-past-two. Relieved by Dennis and Kingsley. If we see suspect emerge, we follow. If-"

"You have a habit of repeating the plan when you're nervous," Blaina observed.

"Yeah... sorry."

They watched and waited some more. The sun rose higher in the sky. Several buses thundered past and families came back and forth from the playground. No sign of life showed in the house across the road. Ivy extracted some sandwiches and a flask of tea from the bag at her feet. They ate and drank, and then resumed their silent vigil. Blaina glanced at her watch, muttering, "Half one."

Barely ten minutes later a resonant _crack_ sounded from an alleyway several houses away from the one they were watching. No one paid any attention, apart from a small boy who said, "What was that mummy?" To which she replied, "Probably just a car, sweetie."

But the two women who had been sitting on the bench were already hurrying across the road.

"Is that him, do you think?" Blaina muttered, her hand moving to her pocket.

"Let's find out," Ivy replied, reaching inside her denim jacket.

They stopped at the entrance to the alleyway, drawing their wands and casting furtive looks around them. The Muggles had noticed nothing.

A figure was crouched on the floor, breathing heavily. She wore a long, black overcoat and her fair hair hung in raggedy curtains over her face. She swayed to her feet, half leaning against the wall for support.

Blaina gasped.

The woman raised her wand, hand trembling.

"Who are you?" she snarled.

"Elektra,it's us-" Ivy began.

"_Who are you_?" her voice rose several octaves, bursting with anger, and several sparks shot out of her wand.

"Ivy Roak," Ivy said hastily, her eyes wide with fear and shock, "Auror for the Ministry of Magic, born in Ireland on New Year's Eve, I had a pet mouse called Hugo the Conqueror, and I once forced my sister to eat soap."

"Blaina Tirzltongue," her companion added, "Also an Auror, I was in Ravenclaw, I was in training at the same time as you, and when we first met we ate crumpets."

The woman lowered her wand.

"Thank god," she breathed, "I had to... I had to check..."

She tried to take a step forward, but her knees gave way and she stumbled.

"Elektra!" Blaina squealed, and she ran forwards to catch her friend, "What happened? I thought you were with Mad Eye and... you were... what-"

"They attacked us..." Elektra panted, clutching at Blaina's arms, "Cloaked and masked... out of nowhere... we weren't ready..."

Ivy let out a strangled yelp. "You're bleeding!"

Elektra looked down and pulled aside her coat, revealing a dark crimson patch spreading across her white shirt.

"That was a curse sent by Nott," she said with a hollow laugh, "I forgot about that. It's nothing."

But even as she said it she swayed and dug her fingers into Blaina's shoulders in an effort to stay standing. Ivy rushed over, and together they lowered Elektra until she was sitting, propped up against the brick wall.

"What happened?" Blaina hissed urgently.

"We'd just separated from Frank and Alice... then they came at us... six of them. Nott and Mulciber and four others I didn't recognise... attacked us! We duelled and... and..."

Her eyes filled with tears and she gripped Blaina harder than ever.

"They killed... they killed Mad Eye..." she whispered faintly.

Ivy froze in the act of pulling away Elektra's coat to fix her wound, and Blaina cried out in disbelief.

"No! They didn't! Not Mad Eye... not Alastor..."

Elektra nodded and sunk back into the wall, taking deep and shaky breaths.

"We were all duelling," she said slowly, "I couldn't see what was going on... and I got one, and his friend took him away in Side-Along Apparition... and I turned quickly, and the other four were at him... and I couldn't do anything... and he fell... and they came at me... and... and... and I ran away."

She put her hands to her face, shaking her head. "I should have got them. I should have tried! I'm a coward... I ran away..."

"No!" Blaina said firmly, "It was four against one. You did the right thing. They would have killed you both. You did the right thing."

Ivy pulled her wand away from Elektra's side as the blood seemed to be sucked back in. She was trembling.

"He's dead? Mad Eye is _dead_?"

Elektra nodded. Her face was paper white. Ivy closed her eyes and looked as though she was about to throw up. But she quickly regained her composure and stood up.

"Let's get back to Headquarters. We need to tell Kingsley. We need to sort out what's going to happen now. And you need to go to St. Mungo's."

She and Blaina pulled Elektra to her feet, holding her up as she trembled between them. In the street beyond, a driver beeped furiously as a car pulled out in front of her, the boy who had wondered about the crack fell over and cut his knee, and in the house that they'd been watching so vigilantly for three hours, a curtain twitched in the window.


	8. Superiority and Ethnomania

YES, I KNOW IT'S LATE! I apologise for not having updated for ages. I'm in sixth form and trying to do well, so my writing time is fairly limited. Updates will not be often from now on, and I apologise for that, but it cannot be helped. I will try my best to write as much as I can.

To make up for that, this is a fairly long chapter. In which various characters you already know will turn up! And there might just be a bit of a scene... possibly. And you get a bit of Quirrelmort bromance in there(because I love them and their friendship)! So please review!

And those who have reviewed, thank you so much! I love you. Have a cookie.

I've also changed the rating to T because of swearing.

(Also, just so you know, 'ethnomania' means an obsession with your ancestry/race/etc.)

**Chapter 8 - Superiority and Ethnomania**

"Riddle, you gotta help me out! I mean... _seriously_!"

Tom raised his eyebrow but still did not look up from his book. The two of them were sitting in Tom's room; Tom occupying the armchair, Quirrell having decided to sprawl himself across his friend's bed. It was mid-October and the autumn weather had finally settled in. The sky was grey, and Vanessa Bright was in the garden trying to hang up the laundry despite the wind.

"Please," Quirrell moaned, "Please, please, please, pleasepleasepleaseple-"

"And why should I do it?" Tom asked lazily, staring steadily at his book to keep himself in check – he could feel the familiar itch to snatch up his wand and hex a certain someone.

"Because it is an excruciating ordeal to go through alone," Quirrell said, glaring at the ceiling, "My mother parades me around like an interesting pet, and the place is full of stuck-up, boring twits in fancy clothes, all competing to see who has the purest blood and who has the bigger estate. And guaranteed at some point my mother will tactlessly try to get me married off to some idiotic, snobby girl who only cares about her face, and I really don't want to go, but I _have_ to, so if I'm going to suffer you can too."

"Why don't you take Elona or Frankie then?"

"Because they're not Slytherins. And Frankie is a Muggle-born. As soon as she puts her foot through the door a hunting horn will blow and they'll chase her down and brutally murder her and then drown me in her blood."

"You're over-exaggerating," Tom observed.

"So you'll go?" he asked hopefully.

"No."

Quirrell rolled off of the bed and lay face down on the floor.

"I hate you," he said.

"The feeling is mutual," Tom replied.

"Where won't you go?" Frankie asked, appearing in the doorway, "And who is going to drown you in my blood?"

"It's the stupid dinner party my mother forces me to go to every year," Quirrell explained, his voice muffled slightly by the floor, "And Riddle won't go with me."

"He's invited?" she asked.

"We're allowed to bring guests."

"Well if he doesn't want to," Elona said, walking in after Frankie, "Then take Frankie. I'm sure she'd _love_ to go with you."

Tom noted with interest that Frankie turned rather pink at those words and shot a sharp look at her friend. Quirrell, on the other hand, had his face still buried in the floor and did not see.

"Because she's a Muggle-born," he said.

"Nice to know, after all these years of being acquainted with you, how you truly feel about my blood status," Frankie said, her cheeks still flushed.

"You know what I mean," he sighed, finally rolling over and sitting up, "The thing is hosted by Lucius-blinking-Malfoy, and I can tell you who will be there. People like the Parkinsons, Lord-bloody-Greengrass and his daughters, the Lestranges that aren't already in Azkaban... and the whole flipping Black family. It's like the freakin' Pure Blood Society."

Tom looked up, suddenly interested. "The Black family..." he repeated slowly.

"Yeah, you must know of them," Quirrell sighed, "One of the oldest Wizarding families. They're related to pretty much everyone. I think I'm some sort of second cousin four times removed. There's Orion and Walburga. You'll possibly remember their kids from a few years above us at Hogwarts – Sirius and Regulus. And the Black Sisters. Everyone knows who they are. Andromeda, Narcissa and Bellatrix."

Tom felt a bubble of laughter grow inside him, but he controlled it easily enough. A smirk flitted across his face for the briefest moment.

"-it's idiotic," Quirrell was saying, "And I was only in Slytherin because I knew my family would rip my guts out if I wasn't."

"And because you're an evil jerk," Frankie muttered. He ignored her.

...

_I really shouldn't be doing this._

_I really shouldn't._

_Something could happen._

_I could do something I'll regret._

_Why am I doing this?_

But he knew he wouldn't change his mind, and that was what worried him the most. That solid determination. It was so similar to how he used to be, right at the very beginning.

He adjusted his robes slightly and held his head higher. He was in control. He wasn't going to torture anybody. He wasn't going to kill either. He had no need. He was going because he wanted to _see_. To see what they were all like here, in this world. To see if they were the same. The incident at the Ministry with Lucius Malfoy had intrigued him. The man had recognised something in him, and Tom wanted to know if the others would too.

He had unsettled Lucius. He knew it. And a great part of him wanted to do the same to the others. Scare them. Make them wonder.

"Quirinus, stand up straight."

He looked round to see Quirrell's irritated expression. His mother grabbed the back of his robes and dragged them up, forcing him out of his slouch.

"You aren't going to embarrass me this time, boy," she snapped, "Act like you deserve your birthright."

"My birthright?" he snorted, jerking away from her.

"You come from a good family," she hissed, "An honourable blood-line. Your father-"

"My father, blah, blah, blah," he said, nostrils flaring in annoyance.

She rapped the back of his head sharply with her wand. Several sparks shot into the air and his brown hair flattened like it had been slicked down with water. He waited until she had walked past him then messed it up again, glaring at her back.

Appendra Quirrell was a stout, middle-aged woman with iron grey hair pulled back into a bun so tight it stretched the skin of her face. She had adorned her fingers, wrists and neck with gold and opals, and there was rouge on her cheeks; a failed attempt to make herself look younger and more fashionable.

"Thanks for agreeing to come," Quirrell muttered to Tom, "And I apologise for my mother."

Tom shrugged. "It's cool."

The three of them apparated when they were a safe distance away from the town of Frennell, and appeared in a lane bordered by a high, neatly cut hedge that curved round to an iron gate. Tom recognised it immediately even though he had never been there before – at least, not in this life.

Appendra held out a square of gold-bordered parchment and the gate swung open to admit them. A grand manor house lay at the end of the gravel drive. It was all columns and balconies and mullioned windows. They proceeded to the front doors, which were open wide. A wizard in plain black robes – one of many that had been hired for the evening – bowed them into a vast entrance hall with a flagged stone floor and solemn portraits staring down from the walls. Another black-robed serviceman gestured them towards an open doorway, saying, "Everyone is gathered in the library."

"Bloody fancy pure-blood snobs," Quirrell muttered viciously under his breath, followed by a nervous glance at his mother, but she had not heard him.

They walked through the doors and into a large room. It was most definitely a library, though Tom thought it was more for show and doubted any of the books had ever been read. Shelves lined the walls, and heavy curtains hung over the windows. A magnificent chandelier lit the room, throwing a cold, flickering light onto the people mingling below.

Many of them were of the older generation, and dressed in black. The few younger people that were there either stood in small groups at the sides of the room, sullenly surveying the goings on, or trooping dutifully after their parents. Though people were talking, they were doing so in low voices, and a slow, mournful tune was playing from the distance, as though a miserable old man was playing the piano in a room overhead. Overall, the atmosphere was reminiscent of a funeral.

A tall woman approached them. She had long silver hair, and her deep emerald robes swept the floor. Her face was lined with age and she moved slowly, yet she emanated an air of strong and calm authority.

"Appendra," she said, and her voice was surprisingly low and throaty, "It is good of you to come this evening."

"Lady Malfoy," Appendra Quirrell replied, an eager look in her eye, "It is a pleasure, of course. We are honoured by your hospitality."

"Well, it is down to my son," Lady Malfoy replied, "Lucius would welcome all of his guests upon their arrival, but there are many as you can see. My son is quite the host."

She turned to look at the two young men who had entered with Appendra.

"Quirinus," she said, with a solemn nod, "You are working at the Ministry, are you not? I trust that it is going well for you."

"Yes it is," Quirrell said, then after a pause he added stiffly, "Thank you."

She moved on past him, looking decidedly bored, and rested her eyes on Tom.

"And you are...?" she asked.

"Tom Riddle, a family friend," Appendra announced before he could say anything.

"Indeed," she said, raising a thin eyebrow, "Well, I thank you all for coming, and I hope you enjoy your evening. Now if you'll excuse me..."

She turned and glided away. Tom thought she was just as unpleasant as her son.

The dinner was served in the 'Grand Dining Room'. A table, long enough to seat around thirty people on each side, occupied the centre of a vast room lined with portraits and gilded mirrors. The black-robed wizards served the food – a starter of prawns and salad, and a main course of roasted pheasant. Tom found himself sitting towards the end of the table furthest away from the Malfoys; evidently the Quirrell family and their guest were not thought notable enough to sit high up the table. He was placed between Quirrell and an elderly man with yellowing skin who neither spoke nor acknowledged anyone else's existence during the meal, but ate with a ferocity and appetite surprising for someone of his age. He noticed halfway along the table sat his colleagues Thorfinn Toke and Arcus Harrow, though they had not seen him. Right at the head of the table he could see Lucius Malfoy with his parents on his right. Seated to his left Tom recognised Orion and Walburga Black and their sons. And next to them, though his view was obscured by the number of people between them, he thought he saw a curled lock of dark brown hair.

"You looking for someone?" Quirrell asked curiously.

"Not at all," Tom said turning back to his plate, "Just seeing who's here."

Quirrell grunted in reply and poked viciously at his remaining pheasant with a fork.

The plates were removed not long after, to be quickly replaced with the dessert course. Silver platters of meringues and fruit, frosted cakes decorated with marzipan figures and cream, and a whole assortment of small tarts and pastries.

"Excellent," Quirrell said, looking considerably more cheerful, "The bit I look forward to. Pudding."

He reached out and took several of the strawberry jam tarts, muttering to himself, "The Queen of Hearts she made some tarts."

"What?" Tom frowned.

"The Queen of Hearts she made some tarts all on a summer's day," Quirrell repeated, "The Knave of Hearts he stole the tarts and took them clean away."

And he winked and slipped the tarts into the pocket of his robes. Tom raised his eyebrows.

"It's a Muggle nursery rhyme," Quirrell explained, "I thought you might have known it. Frankie used to say it. We used to sneak into the kitchens and get the Hogwarts House Elves to make us jam tarts. So I'm nicking some for her. It'll amuse her."

Tom's eyebrows rose still higher. His friend stared at him blankly.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing." Tom turned away, smirking slightly.

...

He slipped out of the library, away from the crowds and into a long hallway, dim lighting revealing gloomy portraits and heavy curtains, fighting the desire to laugh. Nothing was particularly funny, but everything seemed to amuse him highly. All the guests and the ways they behaved and interacted with each other. He wondered what would happen if he suddenly shot a few spells into the air – set fire to the building, hexed some people, caused a bit of chaos. He pictured the mass of bodies running. People screaming. Spells flying everywhere.

_You really need to stop this,_ a voice somewhere in the back of his head said.

He bit back a laugh and shook his head slightly. He wasn't going to do anything. He'd built up too much self control on the past few months. Granted, his past _behaviour_ had used to... upset him. But now he felt like he'd passed a milestone. He was in control, the thoughts only amused him. _He was in control._

Two people appeared suddenly in the hallway – a tall man with dark, shoulder-length hair, and a blonde girl giggling breathlessly at his shoulder. They came to an abrupt halt when they saw him.

"Oh," the girl took a couple of steps back, her hands frozen in the act of unlacing the front of her dress. The man looked from Tom to his female companion. He didn't seem the slightest bit abashed. The girl on the other hand turned a vivid red and hurried back the way they had come, looking mortified to have been seen.

"Well..." the man looked at Tom and shrugged, "She wasn't that pretty anyway."

Tom looked at him carefully. Sirius Black. Older than him – perhaps in his late twenties. He wore a ring on one hand with the Black family crest on. That was interesting. In the other world he had been sorted into Gryffindor, not followed the ways of his family, and been disowned as a teenager. A blood traitor. Here he was not.

"Sirius, what are you doing?"

_Oh, this is just too good!_

Bellatrix Black walked over towards the two of them. She was younger than his memories of her from his past life, yet older than him. Her face was not hollowed and drawn because of all her years in Azkaban, yet those dark eyes and high cheekbones were the same.

"What's it to you, Bella?" Sirius said, putting his hands in his pockets and looking at her nonchalantly.

She returned his gaze coldly and said, "You seem to have caught the eye of the youngest Greengrass girl. I'm surprised you haven't had your way with her yet... though I did just see her looking rather flustered."

He shrugged. Bellatrix turned her eyes to Tom.

"Who are you?"

"Tom Riddle," he replied, meeting her eyes.

Her expression was haughty and aloof; she looked at him with cold disinterest, as though he was nothing more than one of the service wizards or a house elf. He recalled how she had used to look at him with the utmost reverence and adoration. And with fear. His fingers brushed lightly against his wand in his robe pocket.

"Don't be such a prude, Bella," Sirius said in a sing-song voice, "Lucius would want you to be nice to his guests."

"I don't give a damn what Lucius thinks," she said, bringing up a hand to examine her nails in a manner that clearly stated her indifference.

"Narcissa likes him," Sirius said, with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Bellatrix's nostrils flared. "Nothing will come of it," she said stiffly, "Narcissa was always so... _emotional_. She will soon see sense."

"God forbid we should have emotions," Sirius replied mockingly.

She ignored her cousin and looked at Tom again.

"Riddle," she said slowly, "I do not recognise that name."

Still leaning casually against the wall, he met her eyes with confidence.

"Are you a pure-blood?" she asked.

"Half-blood," he answered.

Her lips curled, and she tossed her head in the manner of a proud horse.

"Better half clean than a Muggle-born," she said, and she spat out the words like they physically repulsed her, "Sometimes we cannot help the foolish ways of our parents, though we must do well to not repeat their errors. Which family is it you come from?"

"The Gaunts," he said, the corners of his mouth twisting into a smirk.

Bellatrix froze and let out an almost feral hiss, and her cousin's head whipped round fast, eyes wide.

"Do you want to say that again?" she said after a pause, and her voice was low and threatening.

"The Gaunts," he repeated casually.

Almost at once her wand was at his throat and she was glaring at him, her eyes accusing and dark. Sirius shifted where he was standing and coughed uncomfortably.

"The Gaunts are a respected, pure-blood family," Bellatrix said slowly, "They would never dirty themselves by mixing with-"

"Well, that's the funny thing, isn't it?" Tom said, holding her gaze with confidence and enjoying himself immensely, "Because they did."

"You are a liar!" she spat.

"Bella..." Sirius muttered, sounding wary.

"Merope Gaunt," Tom continued, "Daughter of Marvolo Gaunt. She fell in love with a Muggle. She ran away with him. She gave birth to me-"

"Do not speak so disrespectfully of the Gaunts," her eyes had taken on a slightly wild look, and Tom was pleased to see that even in this world she had the same raging temper and fluctuating psychological state, "They are relatives of the Blacks, and we do not-"

"Oh I'm not surprised," he interrupted, "You all seem to be related to one another, don't you? If you all keep at marrying pure-bloods then the wizarding world will become one massive, incestuous fami-"

There was a load _bang_ as Bellatrix tried to curse him, but he had been ready and blocked it with barely any effort. She stumbled away from him, her wand arm outstretched and quivering slightly, her eyes blazing madly.

"How _dare_ you?" she snapped.

"Bellatrix!" Sirius hissed, backing away, "Stop!"

Tom stood tall and glared back at her. He felt powerful. He hadn't tried to use any of his Dark Magic in this world, and now he wondered whether it was all still available to him. He could cut her down so easily. He wanted to punish her. She had failed him in the other world. She had let Potter and his accomplices escape. And now she was trying to fight him. He could feel her now, trying to use Legilimency to weaken and disable him. He blocked her easily enough, and she began to push harder. He could see words forming on her lips, her wand tilting towards his face, her nostrils flaring wildly...

"Riddle, what..."

Quirrell froze as quickly as he had entered the corridor, throwing his hands up in a gesture of surrender as Bellatrix's eyes switched their half-crazed stare to him.

"Quirinus Quirrell," she said, "So it was you who brought this deranged, insolent _scum_ into our midst."

"Riddle, what did you do?" Quirrell murmured, staring at him with wide eyes.

"He dares to insult my family! He comes in here and makes wild accusations and-"

"Bella, calm down!" Sirius barked, "Lower your wand and just-"

She turned on him at once, the point of her wand directly between his eyes.

"Don't tell me what to do Sirius!" she shrieked, and he leapt away from her.

Tom's wand was in his hand and he felt a surge of familiar power. There was anger there too – anger and an exhilarated rush. He wanted to curse her. Torture her. Kill her. He raised his wand.

But a hand clamped down on his wrist suddenly and he felt himself being dragged into a compressing nothingness, his wand wrenching sideways in his hand, a foot connecting hard with his shin.

Then his feet hit solid ground, and he could taste different air in his mouth. He stumbled to the side, feeling that hot anger slipping away from him, the hand still tight round his arm.

"What the _fuck_ did you think you were doing?"

His eyes snapped open. Quirrell was glaring at him with a mixed expression of anger and disbelief.

"What the _fuck_ was that?"

He released Tom's wrist and stepped away from him.

"Are you completely _insane_? You cannot start a fight with Bellatrix Black. What is wrong with you? What did you _do_?"

Tom said nothing. He stood there, the cold night air filling his mouth and lungs. He could barely remember what he had done now.

"Oh my god," Quirrell ran his hands wearily over his face and through his hair, "I cannot believe this. I _cannot_ believe this. We are going to be in so much trouble. No... _you_ are going to be in so much trouble. What the hell did you do?"

"I just..." Tom closed his eyes, "She asked which wizarding family I came from, so I told her the truth and it kind of pissed her off."

Quirrell folded his arms and shook his head; Tom could tell he didn't believe him.

"She thought I was being disrespectful," he added, "So she stuck her wand in my face. And I might have said something slightly offensive about pure-bloods, but only _after_ she threatened me."

He held eye contact for a few seconds before Quirrell seemed to relax.

"Thank god," he muttered, "That's not as bad... They can't really cause a fuss about that, so no one is going to hunt us down and make a big deal of it. I thought you'd had a full on fight or something..."

Tom took a step back, looking around to see where they were, and his knee buckled slightly. He reached down and rubbed at the dull ache in his shin.

"Did you kick me?"

"Yeah, sorry about that," Quirrell said, "Didn't mean to. You pulled your wand out and I just kind of... freaked out. Apparating you out of there was the first idea that came to me."

"Where are we, out of interest?" Tom asked.

"The woods near Frennell Hall."

He looked around and now recognised the familiar rises and falls of the trees that he could see out of his bedroom window. To the right and down the hill he could make out the lights of the Muggle village.

"Who are your family then?" Quirrell said slowly, "To make her that pissed..."

"The Gaunts," Tom said, for the third time that evening.

Quirrell stared at him.

"Are you serious?"

Tom nodded.

"Like... Morfin Gaunt? The guy who brutally killed all those Muggles?"

"Yes," Tom turned away and began to walk in what he assumed was the direction of the Bright's house, "He's my uncle."

"So, your father...?" Quirrell hurried to catch up with him.

"Was a Muggle. My mother was Merope Gaunt. She fell in love with him and then ran off with him, slipping him a love potion all the while. But she stopped when she got pregnant with me, and he abandoned her and ran away back home. Then she died just after I was born."

"How do you know all this?"

He shrugged.

"And your father? Is he still alive?"

"I've no idea. And I don't want to find out, either. I don't need them."

There was a long silence but for their footsteps and the wind in the trees. After a while Quirrell reached out and touched his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, man."

He looked round and was startled to see that Quirrell was looking at him with something that could have been... _concern_?

"Won't you get in trouble with your mother for leaving suddenly?" he asked.

Quirrell shrugged, "I don't care. She'll get over it."

Tom continued to walk home, pushing his hands deep into his pockets.

"Thanks," he murmured.

"Yeah... well, you owe me Riddle."

Tom glanced sideways at his friend, and grinned.


	9. Disruption and Rumours

Guys, I have been receiving so many reviews over the past few weeks. I don't know what I did to deserve this, but I thank you all for it from the bottom of my heart. You don't know how much you have all brightened my days. Thank you, you wonderful people!

And sorry this has been such a wait, I have so much school work and it's really stressing me out (I also got distracted by the pure awesomeness that is Death Note). I'm afraid this is more of a filler chapter. Though everything in it _is_ important and lends to plot development, nothing that exciting happens. Please bear with me though, the next few chapters should be good. I'm going to put my all into them over Christmas.

Thank you for your patience. Don't forget to be awesome guys :D

**Chapter 9 – Disruption and Rumours**

There was no denying that unrest was growing within the Wizarding world. Truth be told, not many knew what was happening or the circumstances surrounding what little they had heard about. Yet there was something happening; some dark undercurrent that was spreading amongst fellow wizards and witches alike.

Surprisingly, the _Daily Prophet_ never seemed to say much. There were slight hints, the occasional questioning comment, but nobody was saying anything outright. They did report a number of incidents, but simply passed them off as nothing but a tragic accident.

Tom sat on the floor of the Coralis Anguis snake enclosure looking at the red and black snakes resting in their natural environment – humid rainforest, damp and bright – his nose mere centimetres from the glass.

"No changes in behaviour," he muttered, and the quill that hovered by his side scratched the words down on some parchment as though held by an invisible hand.

The Bright family had an advantage knowledge-wise. Theodore knew more of what was happening than other wizard families. He heard and saw things at St. Mungo's and repeated them to his family and Tom, but only if Amy was not present.

Quirrell also had observed that things were not as they should be. Working in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, he knew that the Obliviators were having to work harder than ever, though exactly _why_ was something that was never disclosed to him.

Frankie Davis too could report to the others what she saw on the Muggle news: that Muggles were disappearing. Some killed, others simply vanishing from their homes as though wiped from existence. Muggle authorities credited these deaths to "natural causes" and "gas leaks." Again, nobody was saying anything yet everyone _knew_ that something was going on. Something sinister.

Tom slid a glass panel to the side and extended his hand down into the tank, hissing gently. One of the snakes raised its thin head and stretched up to him. He didn't flinch as his skin met cold scales, simply held his hand still as the reptile began to wind itself through his fingers. It curled round his hand; perhaps about 20 inches long, black with thick, even stripes of scarlet and flecks of white. Slowly he withdrew his hand and brought it towards his face. The snake met his eyes, and its forked tongue flicked once.

He himself felt withdrawn from the situation. If he did not comment on it, did not think too hard on it, did not become involved, then he was fine. But he had recognised all the signs immediately. At first he'd been plagued by a stronger sense of guilt than ever, and had to frequently remind himself that this time it was nothing to do with him. But seeing Vanessa and Theodore whispering about it, as well as Quirrell, Elona and Frankie, all of them worrying about what was to come,... he had been the cause of the same things before.

Though he doubted that it would escalate into anything as bad as what he had done. He knew that he had been powerful and very skilled with dark magic. That, as well as all the people who had followed him, had led to wars and death and uncontrollable fear. But in this world there was no Voldemort. And though it was egotistic of him, he did not think that the wizards behind the Muggle killings would come even close to anything he had achieved.

"_And what do you think?_" he hissed to the small snake that was still wound through his fingers, "_Will there be a war?_"

It simply blinked at him indifferently.

"_Yes, that's it I suppose_," he nodded.

Say nothing. Do nothing. He had a normal job. He lived in a normal home. He had worked hard within himself to gain these things thus far, and he was not going to lose them now.

...

Prisca Wilkes was standing in the corridor that led from the Reptile Department to the stairs. Rita, the woman who worked at the reception, was opposite her. They were standing eye to eye, and though Rita had a wide smile plastered across her face there was a menacing air emanating from her. Prisca herself looked very uncomfortable, her wide eyes darting from side to side, her fingers twisting together.

As soon as she saw Tom come through the door she let out a shaky laugh and said: "Tom! I suppose you're heading off for the day then. Got everything that needed doing done, I hope. I have to look over those letters about the Ashwinders and forward them on to Arcus, and that matter will be all sorted."

While she spoke she darted away from Rita and began to walk towards him, still wringing her hands rapidly.

"Come to think of it," she continued in her usual fast, high tone, "I probably should get on with that. Much to do, much to do, and all in time. Yes indeed. Have a good evening."

And with that she disappeared through the door back into the Department.

Rita remained where she had been standing, her bright red lips still hitched up into a ferocious smile. She was wearing a ludicrous plum coloured skirt and jacket, and her blonde hair stood in firm ringlets around her head.

Tom gritted his teeth and carried on walking, hoping to get past her without much incident. He found her highly irritating, though the only contact he ever had with her was walking past her on his way in and out of Boorman's. She watched everything very intently and had the habit of asking prying questions or making patronising comments. He always replied to everything she said with monosyllables, so she had had little to do with him so far.

Unfortunately she took his walking past her as a great opportunity for conversation.

"Tom Riddle," she said breezily, stepping in front of him so that he had no excuse but to stop, "I do believe we haven't been properly introduced. Rita Skeeter."

She held out her hand and he shook it as quickly and politely as he could manage. Her long pink nails scratched against his skin.

"And how are you enjoying your work here?" she said, "Do you enjoy it? Or do you find it tiring? Challenging?"

"It's good work," he said shortly.

"What about the people you work with? Have they accepted you as part of their department?"

"Well, ye-"

"You work under Levski, isn't that right? And with Prisca – isn't she just a dear? And Toke and Harrow. What do you think of them?"

He shrugged, hoping that the conversation would not go on for much longer.

She stared at him expectantly for a short while, and though her teeth stayed bared in a smile, her eyes slowly hardened. She knew she was not going to get anything out of him. Though what it was that she wanted to know about, he was not sure.

Eventually she let out a girlish giggle and stepped to the side.

"Hop off home then, Mr Riddle. I'm sure a nice, young man like you has plenty of things to be doing."

He strode past her, jaw set. He could feel her eyes boring into his back.

...

October had progressed into November with the usual steady decline in temperature and brightness. It rained almost constantly for one week – with dry intervals every few hours – and then the rest of the time it was either drizzling or the sky was dark and heavy with clouds.

It was worse up in Scotland. Max had written – as he did once a week – and said that torrential rain and icy winds buffeted the walls and windows of Hogwarts near incessantly, and Herbology lessons had been temporarily cancelled when the grounds had been turned into what could only be described as a swamp. Jaime also wrote to bemoan the fact that all Quidditch had been put on hiatus until the weather improved; something that both she and Max felt very strongly against - the youngest Bright boy had been sorted into Ravenclaw like his two elder sisters.

Arriving with the winter weather had also been a letter from Marcus Dirkwood.

_Tom,_ it had read,

_Been offered a permanent position out here on the field. Honestly, don't feel at all like coming back to England – great opportunities in the Med, some decent wizards too. Not that there aren't any in UK, but you know what I mean. Really enjoying the work. Honestly don't know what old Lodhupper would do without me, poor old fool. He's a genius, but completely batty. Thinks the whole MoM is run by spies and assassins or something. He's really into this conspiracy theory stuff. Gets the Quibbler delivered every month, which would explain it. _

_Good to know you're doing okay; hope your job is going well for you._

_Marcus_

He had sent a brief reply with Nagne – who had been determined to prove her capabilities and made the journey within two days, then refused to leave the attic for a week.

Tom arrived home from work to find that no one else was in. The sky was already dark and a bitter wind was blowing. He grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the kitchen table, ran up the stairs two at a time, and lay back on his bed, stretching his limbs.

He felt restless, which was unusual. His sleeping pattern had greatly improved over the last few months, and he felt like he had relaxed a satisfactory amount into his life, but his brain remained active and almost always on edge. Taking a bite of the apple, a small voice suddenly leapt into action and asked an unbidden question.

_Voldemort?_

Tom concentrated on eating the apple, slow methodical bites and swallows, his brow furrowed. That was not who he was anymore. He was beyond that. He was Tom Marvolo Riddle, nothing else.

So why did his mind keep returning to it?

He knew that the incident at the Malfoy's house had triggered it. He knew he had nearly lost control then, and Quirrell had witnessed it. And it quietly tormented him in the deepest hours of the night. He had expected Quirrell to mention it to the others. Had expected the hushed comments about how unstable or strange he was. He had not forgotten what the other man had said to Mrs Bright all those months ago. About how he "felt sorry for him".

But why was he letting that get to him? Why did it bother him so much? Before he had never once cared what people thought or said about him, but now the idea of anyone having the slightest suspicion about him and who he was... it threw him into panic.

Quirrell playing witness to his near outburst worried him the most. And this worry in turn confused him. To him people had always been tools or expendables, easily replaced and not worth anything. But now was different. He had quickly realised that he considered Quirrell – and Elona and Frankie too – his friends. He enjoyed their company and enjoyed talking to them. They meant something to him.

Part of him was contented and happy about that. But that sparked anger in other parts of his brain. Anger at himself for succumbing to weak and human feelings. And over all there was turmoil within him, not knowing what he should think or how he should feel or what he should do... Like he was being sucked through a whirlpool, pulled in all directions, so many things going on around him and unable to hold onto anything. He wondered whether life was this hard for other people.

_Crack!_

Tom leapt up from his bed with a start, nearly choking on a mouthful of apple.

Frankie was standing in the middle of his room, her blonde and green hair dripping with rain, an old Ravenclaw scarf wrapped tightly around her neck.

"Hey Tommy-boy," she said, and promptly disappeared.

He stood frozen, hand reaching halfway for the wand that lay on his desk – an impulse he had never gotten rid of.

Perhaps ten seconds later there was another _crack_ and she appeared again.

"'Sup?" she asked, and then disapparated.

He sat back on his bed and threw the apple core into his bin, thoroughly confused.

Within seconds she was back, a wild grin on her face.

"Why are you-" he started to ask, but she was gone again.

Downstairs he heard the front door open and the sound of Quirrell's voice.

Frankie apparated into his room again, let out a cackle, and left just as quickly.

"YOU ARE GOING TO SPLINCH YOURSELF!" Elona screeched from downstairs.

Tom watched with his eyebrows raised as she appeared yet again, pulling a face, then vanished.

"I don't know why you're doing this," Quirrell said loudly, "Just apparating in like that... he could have been doing _anything_."

"I _hope_ you splinch yourself," Elona said.

Quirrell just sat and watched, torn between amusement and exasperation. She only stopped when the other two had walked into Tom's room and she managed to apparate right on top of Quirrell – whether she had done it on purpose or not, Tom couldn't tell.

"How are you?" Elona asked, as Frankie rolled off of a whimpering Quirrell, laughing and apologising all in one breath.

"I'm alright," he replied," What...?"

"Sorry for our lack of control over this crazy beast," she said, gesturing to the blonde girl, "Don't ask me what's wrong with her, I've been wondering that all my life too."

"Hey!" Frankie said indignantly, smacking her arm playfully.

"Riddle," Quirrell said, picking himself up off the floor, "How are the snakes?"

"They're okay," he said.

"Good. Glad to hear it. Here, catch!"

Quirrell pulled a bottle from his back and threw it to Tom. He caught it, looked at the label, then looked back at Quirrell, who was now passing similar bottles to the girls.

"Firewhisky?" he asked.

"Firewhisky," Quirrell repeating, collapsing heavily into a chair and taking a swig of the alcohol.

Tom looked at Elona and Frankie, raising an eyebrow.

"Is your mum-"

"Out," she said, with a shrug. Frankie was watching Quirrell with a nervous expression.

He turned to look at him too. Quirrell was staring at the bottle with a fierce glare.

"Lost my job," he said after a while, "Said they were to make cuts to every department. Cuts my arse. Something dodgy is going on and I'm just another disposable employee who was in the way. Bloody Ministry."

He started to laugh, and took another draught of Firewhisky. "And my mother's still on at me for leaving that bloody party early."

"Why did you leave early?" Frankie asked, looking interested.

Tom froze. His eyes met Quirrell's momentarily. Bile rose in his throat.

"Because it was boring as hell and we couldn't stand it any longer," Quirrell said, rolling his eyes and drinking yet again from the bottle.

"Frankie, we're going to need to smuggle this idiot out of here tonight," Elona said in a carrying whisper, "My mother would never let him back in the house if she knew he was getting completely smashed up here."

...

(A/N: Crappy ending is crappy guys, I'm sorry. I got writer's block and nothing was happening and I didn't know what to say, but I promise I'll try harder next chapter. Please review, thanks so much!)


	10. Christmas

**Chapter 10 – Christmas**

Tom sat at the desk in his room, staring out into the grey winter sky, musing deeply. He knew he shouldn't be letting this get to him, knew he shouldn't be thinking so hard into it. It was none of his business and, after all, he could be misunderstanding the whole situation. But it worried him, and had been constantly pestering him in the recesses of his mind for nearly a fortnight.

Eleven days ago it had been the Staff Christmas Party, and in all his life Tom would never have expected to find himself attending one, and definitely not one with all the grandeur and pomp of Boorman's. Truthfully, he would rather have not gone, but it seemed to be the expected thing among employees. Furthermore, Vanessa Bright had washed and ironed his dress robes and made quite a point about him going, lecturing him on food and punctuality and being polite. He guessed she still hadn't forgotten the time Quirrell had brought the Firewhisky, and it had made a great excuse for Tom to be out and Quirrell to be at his own home.

So he had found himself standing in a brightly lit and well decorated hall – the room used for the most prestigious meetings, opening onto a large antechamber – with a glass of mulled wine in one hand, which he did not particularly like, and watching assorted wizards and witches milling about, some chatting and laughing and enjoying the festivities, and others looking downright lost or tense.

The place had been adorned with twinkling fairly lights and great mountains of tinsel charmed to ripple as though in a breeze. An enormous Christmas tree stood in one corner, stretching right up to the ceiling and dripping in glass baubles of all colours. A long buffet table had been set up on side, practically bending under the weight of plates and bowls piled high with various Christmas delicacies.

Tom had found it all very tedious and disliked every minute of it. The only highlight for him had been when Zudoc Boorman, looking unusually smart in dress robes of plum velvet, had danced drunkenly across the floor and crashed headfirst into a decorative pile of presents, dragging his horror-struck personal assistant, Julia Pike, with him.

Yet the one thing that kept bothering him so incessantly had happened about two thirds through the party as he was making his way to the bathroom. As he passed along a corridor he had overheard a conversation that could only be described as interesting... or perhaps disconcerting.

"... they'll pay him off," someone was saying in a hushed whisper, "Or kill him. I didn't think it would come to murder, but you never know with those in high society."

"As long as it is all kept quiet," a low voice that sounded like Arcus Harrow's said, "And it's already come to murder anyway. Things have come this far, and I never expected anything less."

"Murder?" the first voice sounded shocked.

Tom had frozen where he stood, eyes widening.

"The Auror," Harrow had replied, "Mad Eye Moody. I heard it was Nott's work."

"Oh yes, I heard about that."

"They're blackmailing Boorman though. They won't kill him I don't suppose, he's much too influential."

"I don't want to know," the other person had said sharply, "It's a dangerous game they're playing, and I do not want to become another pawn."

"We may not have a choice sooner or later," Harrow hissed back, "But whatever is going on here, I do not want to get on the wrong side of Bellatrix Black."

It was then that Tom realised he had been holding his breath. Feeling his blood pounding in his ears, he had walked on away from the door, his footsteps muffled by the carpeted floor. He didn't want to overhear it any longer. And as he had passed a small curtained alcove, he had seen a flicker of material and heard the shifting of feet and a small intake of breath.

So someone else had been listening too. It was not just him who had paid witness to these disturbing revelations. He stared out at the garden, its grass covered in a treacherous frost. The small feline form of Howard was picking its way through the withered, frozen flower patch.

Tom rubbed at his eyes, frowning. He was probably over-thinking it. For all he knew he had simply caught part of a private conversation based on nothing but rumours and speculation. Neither Arcus Harrow nor the other man had said anything definite. They could have just been repeating things they had read in the _Prophet_. He could have misheard them. Besides, who had killed Alastor Moody and whether Boorman was being subjected to blackmail was none of his business.

It had been the mention of Bellatrix Black that had unnerved him. She, of all his followers before, had been the most unstable and intent on the cause. She had burned with fierce passion for what she had called the 'rights of wizarding blood', which had been severely strengthened and twisted by her time in Azkaban. Who was to say that it wasn't the same in this world?

He sighed and shook his head. He should stop thinking about it.

_Not getting involved_, he told himself firmly, _Not my business, nothing to do with me. Stop thinking. Stop analysing. Stop it!_

"Tom?" a small voice whispered through the crack in his door.

He turned his head to see Amy peeping in.

"Merry Christmas," she exclaimed happily.

A smile spread across his face

"Merry Christmas," he replied.

"Mum says you should come downstairs now and dinner will be ready soon and Quirrell will be here soon and could you come down," she said, all in one breath.

"Okay then," he stood up, brushing his hair out of his face, listening to the youngest Bright's feet pattering quickly down the stairs.

The delicious aroma of turkey, gravy, roast potatoes and the like was wafting through the house, accompanied by the sound of Mrs Bright yelling "Out! Out! OUT!" as Max and Jaime ran from the kitchen. The rest of the family were in the living room, including Nathan. Tom nodded at them, and went to sit between Elona and Theodore on the sofa.

"Happy Christmas," Elona smiled at him; she was curled round a pillow, hugging her knees.

"Happy Christmas," he said, looking round at them, "Uh... to all of you."

The doorbell rang, and Amy skipped excitedly to the door, yelling the season's greetings at Quirrell as she let him in.

"And a very merry Christmas to you too, you crazy child," he laughed, coming into the room and unwinding his scarf from round his neck, "Hi Nathan, how you doin'?"

"Good thanks Quirrell," Nathan smiled, "I'm sorry to hear you were one of the ones who suffered from all these cuts."

Quirrell shrugged as he squeezed into the space between Tom and Elona.

"Eh, s'alright," he muttered, and then chuckled, "At least I'm not having to clean up after wizards who go mad in front of Muggles over the holiday period."

"I suppose that's good," Nathan remarked, "Luckily for us it's fairly easy over Christmas. No sporting events at all. But as soon as we hit January-"

"No, we're not talking about boring work!" Max said, smacking Nathan over the back of the head with a cushion, "It's Christmas!"

"Alright, alright, yeesh!" Nathan said, grabbing another cushion and beating him back.

"Boys, stop fighting," Mr Bright said, without looking up from the paper.

Vanessa's face appeared round the doorframe, looking flushed.

"Quirrell you're just in time, dear. Dinner, everyone!"

...

Christmas day was a cheerful, energetic affair, and Tom was surprised and happy to say he enjoyed it. There was an element of childish joy and something very enriching about spending the day with a family, eating and talking and laughing and opening presents together. He was glad that Mrs Bright had finally taken pity on Quirrell and invited him over – sparing him the 'agony' of enduring a day with his own relatives – so he wasn't the only one there not part of the family.

Reflecting upon it later, he realised he had completely relaxed into the situation, forgetting all about his worries and the conversation he'd overheard. He had really and truly had fun.

"What're you grinning about?" Quirrell asked.

They were sitting in the lounge; Nathan sprawled across one sofa, Tom, Quirrell and Jaime sitting on the other, and Elona curled on the floor leaning against her sister's legs. Mr Bright was persuading the two youngest children into bed, and his wife was in the kitchen trying out an enchanted whisk set her aunt had sent.

"Nothing," Tom murmured, "Just had a good day."

"Aw don't get too happy on us, Riddle," he laughed, patting him on the head in the way one would an animal, "It's all over soon. All the pretty things have to go back to bed."

"Speaking of going to bed," Vanessa Bright said from the doorway, "We can set up a camp bed for you on Tom's floor so you can spend the night here. Nathan will be sleeping down here."

"You don't have to do that," Quirrel said quietly.

"Nonsense, dear," she replied, "It's not a problem at all."

The two of them looked at each other for a few seconds, him frowning and her with an understanding smile. Eventually, Quirrell gave a resigned nod, and she winked fondly at him and bustled off. Tom wondered if there was some kind of unspoken agreement between the two of them concerning Quirrell's family.

Quirrell didn't mention this arrangement through the rest of the evening as they and the family sat together in the living room, or as he and Tom set the camp bed up late that evening. All he said on the matter was: "This isn't a problem is it, Riddle?"

"Not at all," he replied, putting everything he had received for Christmas away in appropriate places.

He hadn't really expected much, but, as usual, the Bright family's kindness had outdone itself. As a joint effort they'd got him some a book on Sea Serpents and two pairs of gloves – normal woollen ones and a pair of his own protective ones for work. Amy had given him some fudge that her mother had helped her make, and from Elona and Frankie he had got a Novelty Banoffee Cauldron Cake. Quirrell had given him some socks and then laughed for a long time after he'd opened them – Tom couldn't say he understood the hilarity. He himself had bought everyone chocolates, being unable to think of anything better and unaccustomed to giving gifts.

"Good day?" Quirrell asked, throwing himself across his bed, hands behind his head.

"Yeah, yourself?" Tom sat on his own bed and leant against the wall. A small, throbbing pain had started around his right temple.

"Uh huh," he said through a yawn.

They stayed that way in silence for a while – Quirrell lying down, relaxed, and Tom cross legged with his back against the wall – content to say nothing.

"You've never really celebrated Christmas before, have you?" Quirrell said sleepily after a while.

"Not really," Tom replied.

Silence met his words. He stayed immobile, eyes closed, feeling the uncomfortable ache in his head.

Without really knowing why he added: "I usually stayed away from the others at the orphanage. And at Hogwarts too, I suppose. I was never part of the celebrations."

"Wasn't that lonely?"

He opened his eyes and looked towards to camp bed. Quirrell was looking over at him, head cocked, frowning very slightly.

"Uh... I-I guess, yeah," he murmured, feeling slightly uncomfortable.

"What about that guy you were friends with? Dirkwood?"

Tom shrugged. "Haven't spoken to him in a while. He... he wasn't really a friend."

He shifted slightly under Quirrell's gaze. His headache was getting worse, and he wasn't sure this was a conversation he wanted to partake in.

"Oh. But... are you-?"

Quirrell stopped suddenly, ran his hands wearily through his hair, and sighed. "Never mind. Well, we should sleep."

He pulled the bed sheet over himself and rolled onto his side.

"I hope you don't snore," he added, with a chuckle.

"Hope you don't snore yourself," Tom replied, climbing under the covers of his own bed. Before he placed his wand just under his pillow – a habit he would never grow out of – he flicked it once and the lights went out.

He lay there, trying to ignore his growing headache and staring up at the dark ceiling. He could hear Quirrell breathing quietly several metres away. Somewhere on the floor below there was the sound of Howard's impatient mewling and then Elona's door clicking open and shut. He hoped the migraine would disappear with sleep.

"Hey!" a voice hissed quietly.

"Hm?" he said, looking round and just making out the dark shape that would be the camp bed.

"Happy Christmas, Riddle."

"Quirrell... go to sleep."

His friend laughed as Tom shifted onto his side, rolling his eyes and grinning slightly.

...

And then they had sex.

Kidding. This is not a Quirrellmort slash fic. Goodness no. Friendship bromance only. I've just been reading Matt and Mello Death Note fluff all week, and it's leeched into my brain.

Hope you guys had an amazing Christmas, and great New Year, and I hope 2012 brings you fun and happiness and whatever else you want and need :D

I can't say when the next chapter will be up because I have two exams in January and I'm talking at my youth group in a fortnight, meaning I have to write a whole freaking preach by then. Yay. Fun. Meh.

So please be patient, and also review, if you'd be so kind. Thank you, you lovely people!


	11. Snow and Fire

Hello everyone! Sorry it's been a while. This is one of the chapters I've had in mind since the very start, and I am incredibly excited to get it out there! I hope you enjoy it as much I did writing it.

Thank you so so so much to everyone who has reviewed. I am ever so grateful to you. I hope all of you will have something to say once you've finished this chapter, so please review and let me know what you think.

**Chapter 11 – Snow and Fire**

The year ended with a heavy snowfall. Tom went downstairs on the morning of the 31st to find that Max and Jaime – both of whom would usually be in bed until at least 9 o'clock – were already running round in the garden wrapped in bronze and blue woollen scarves, hurling snowballs at each other.

"It snowed!" Amy announced to him as he entered the kitchen, her cheeks flushed with excitement, her eyes bright. She was sitting on the mat by the back door, pulling bright pink wellington boots onto her feet, her small frame nearly doubled by the thick coat she was bundled into.

He smiled at her, slipping into a chair at the table. Elona nodded sleepily at him, sitting across from him with her chin resting on her knees and a patchwork blanket draped over her shoulders.

"Morning, Tom," Vanessa Bright said from the stove. The smell of bacon and eggs filled the kitchen, and sunlight shone through the windows, reflecting off the deep layer of snow that covered everything in sight.

"Good morning," he said, flinching slightly as Howard jumped up onto his lap.

"Still up for going to Diagon Alley later?" Vanessa asked.

"Yeah," he nodded, scratching the cat under her chin. The Bright family had already told him of their arrangements to go to London on New Year's Eve, as well as inviting him, Quirrell and Frankie Davis along too.

"Have you ever been there for the New Year before?" she said, setting empty china plates along the table.

Tom shook his head. He tried to think of his previous New Year memories, but they were nothing more than a muddled mess of evenings in the Hogwarts Library, or crowded into a room with the other children at the orphanage. He vaguely remembered fireworks, but wasn't sure if that was a recollection from this life, or the one before.

"Well, it's a beautiful place."

"And so pretty in the snow," Elona added.

They were not wrong. They Flooed to the Leaky Cauldron late that afternoon, after Frankie and Quirrell had joined them for a quick dinner. Tom could not deny that Diagon Alley looked spectacular. Twinkling fairy lights were strung from shop to shop, and many of the windows were decorated with streamers and mini fireworks that left glitter trailing through the air. A group of wizards and witches must have enchanted the snow not to turn into an icy slush, as it stayed soft and powdery despite the many people that were walking across it. Street vendors were selling chocolates, sweets and roasted chestnuts.

"Now we'll be meeting back here by one in the morning," Mrs Bright said firmly, gathering everyone into a group, "That's when we'll be leaving. So you lot" – she shot meaningful looks at Elona, Tom, Frankie and Quirrell – "you can wander off all you like, but be back by _one_. Okay? No Jaime you are staying with us... don't look at me like that, they're older than you... You four, make sure you have fun, but for goodness sakes behave yourselves because I do not want to be sending you home on stretchers. You hear me?"

They nodded dutifully, Quirrell making a special effort to look sincere as Vanessa's eyes lighted on him.

"Good," she continued, "But one o'clock, here, remember that. Now off you go. Shoo!"

The four of them took off immediately, leaving behind the sounds of Jaime starting to argue with her mother.

"Hey guys," Quirrell said as soon as they were well away, a mischievous grin spreading across his face, "I have an idea."

"Oh God," Frankie groaned, rolling her eyes.

He shoved her playfully on the shoulder before continuing, "What say we go into Muggle London for a bit?"

"I don't know," Elona said, looking doubtful, "We should stay in Diagon Alley."

"Buzz kill," he joked, "Your mum didn't say anything about not leaving Diagon Alley. All she said was to be back by one and to stay out of trouble."

"Well I'm okay with that," Frankie shrugged, smiling, "It'll be fun."

"Tom?" Quirrell turned to him, making exaggerated puppy-eyes.

"I'll go if you stop making that face," he said.

Frankie jabbed Elona in the ribs, grinning, "C'mon Miss Goody-Two-Shoes. If you forgot, I'm a Muggle-born and you've spent enough time out with me to be comfortable in their world. Besides, it's not like we'd stand out, right?"

It was true. All four of them could easily pass for Muggles in their jeans, coats and scarves.

"That's not what I was worrying about," Elona said, and jerked her thumb at Quirrell, "I'm worried about _him_ doing something stupid."

"Moi?" he said, feigning hurt.

"Come on, come on, it'll be awesome!" Frankie pleaded.

Elona's lips wavered into a grin. "Sure. Mum did say we can wander off all we like."

"Now that's more like it!" Quirrell laughed jubilantly.

They waited until they had seen the rest of the Bright family walk past, a disgruntled Jaime slouching behind them. Then they hurried back through the pub and out into the street beyond.

Muggle London was as crowded and festive as Diagon Alley. Over the next couple of hours they wandered the streets and hung out a shopping centre, marvelling at the fancy displays in the windows, laughing at Quirrell's evident fascination with video games in a computer store.

"They've done alright for themselves without magic, haven't they?" he murmured, watching as two teenage boys played a racing game and another screen showed hooded figures fighting robots with lasers, "I'd get me some of those, if I didn't think my mother would blow them into pieces upon sight."

They then proceeded to navigate the busy streets until they came to a park, stopping to buy crêpes on the way. Though the sky was now dark, the park was very busy, an ice rink drawing people from all around. They waged a snowball war on each other on the side of a hill.

At around eleven o'clock, they huddled together laughing breathlessly, covered in snow and all soaking wet – apart from Frankie, who had had the foresight to wear a waterproof coat.

"Shame we can't use magic to dry ourselves off and warm up," Quirrell said, his teeth chattering slightly, "I doubt anyone would notice, but the Ministry would be on us in a flash."

"Let's head back to Diagon Alley," Elona suggested, "I am craving Butterbeer right now. And they'll be starting all the fireworks and celebrations soon, won't they?"

It took them a while to make their way through the crowds back to the Leaky Cauldron. As they walked past a large building on the corner, loud music and excited looking young people pouring through its open doors, Frankie slowed to stare at a girl whose hair was a deep black with electric blue streaks.

"Think I should do my hair like that?" she mused thoughtfully.

"Nah, I like it with the green, you look like a wood nymph," Quirrell said, grabbing her shoulders and propelling her past, "Now stop ogling at the Muggles, we've got" – he glanced at his watch – "thirty-four minutes until 2012."

"Like a _wood nymph_?" she repeated, shrugging him off and turning to look at him, eyebrows raised.

"Uh... yeah," he said, shrugging, "Green, like trees and... nature and stuff."

"I'm a fairy!" Frankie said, raising her arms and twirling round in a circle.

"You are drunk," he said, holding the door of the Leaky Cauldron open for them, "Now get in."

Diagon Alley was even more crowded than it had been a few hours before, though that was not surprising. People were jostling together, shoulder to shoulder, pushing through the crowd in groups. Though it was not entirely unpleasant; there was a sense of communal festivity and fun. Quirrell, Frankie, Elona and Tom made their way towards Gringott's Bank – or as near as they could get – for that was the place where the fireworks were released from.

"Shall I make a toast?" Elona said solemnly, holding her bottle of Butterbeer aloft, "To the New Year and all that it may bring."

"I really hope you're not being serious," Quirrell sniggered, "How old are you? Sixty-five?"

She elbowed him sharply in the ribs, giggling.

"But seriously, I hope it's a good year, and all that."

"Don't we all," Frankie added, drinking from her own bottle.

"I'd like to get a job, for starts," Quirrell said, only just loudly enough for the rest of them to hear over the hubbub of the crowd.

"I should get one too," Elona nodded thoughtfully.

"Screw you guys," Frankie cackled, "I'm gonna live a carefree life on the road, travelling from place to place with an army of cats!"

"Definitely drunk," Quirrell hissed.

"If anyone spiked her drink, it would have been you," Elona replied.

"Hey, not guilty," he said, holding up his hands, "I only have Butterbeer. No Firewhisky for me, I do not want to travel by Floo Powder with alcohol in my system, no siree."

"What, have you tried?" she asked, raising one eyebrow.

"Of course not. But I had an uncle once, who-"

"Course he has," Frankie giggled, "This is Quirrell we're talking about."

He pouted slightly, attempting to look hurt.

"I'm kidding, Q," she said, smacking him over the back of the head with her free hand.

He stuck his tongue out at her, and she pulled a face back, wrinkling her nose and puffing out her cheeks.

"Hey,Franks, that's really attractive," Elona said sarcastically.

"Just like your face," she replied, grinning.

"You're awfully quiet, Riddle," Quirrell said, turning to him.

"Can anyone else hear that?" Tom asked.

They stopped, frowning slightly. The clamour of the crowd had decreased considerably, and heads were starting to turn in every direction, looking around curiously.

"Is it starting?" Frankie asked, the excitement ringing in her voice.

"I don't think so," Quirrell said slowly, looking at his watch as Elona stood on tiptoes, staring down the street, "S'only quarter to."

"There're loads of people coming out of Knockturn Alley," Elona said.

"Where?" Frankie asked, as the rest of them all turned to look.

"Betcha someone was murdered!" Quirrell said.

Frankie laughed, but Elona turned to glare at him sharply.

"Don't say that! What if it's true?"

"Then that'd be a pretty miserable end to my year," he said, "They could have waited to be murdered some other time."

"You are a jerk!" she snapped, but through a smile.

More and more people were now craning their necks to see what was going on, talking in eager whispers.

"Look, there's a load of people coming out," Frankie exclaimed.

She wasn't the only one who had noticed; many people were pointing as a throng of figures swarmed out of Knockturn Alley. They were dressed in black cloaks, standing tightly together in an almost military fashion. They began to march as one, swelling forward in a wave of black. It wasn't possible to tell how many of them there were – their number could have been anywhere between twenty and fifty.

"What's going on?" Frankie asked, letting out a giggle.

That was then the windows of a shop exploded.

As the flames spat out, the crowds surged backwards, screaming. There was a shattering of glass and another explosion. The people clothed in black all raised their wands, shooting curses into the panicked fray. There were sharp _cracks_ from all around as some disapparated, but others seemed too terrified to do anything but scramble away. People were slipping and falling on the snow, shoving at each other, reaching for their families and friends. And still the dark mass moved forwards, flames flickering higher and higher around them.

Tom stood frozen to the spot, unable to do more than stare, a wild horror rising inside of him. He could remember this. He could remember _this._ He could hear the screaming and the crying and the shouting, the hiss and snap of hexes flying in all directions, the steady tramp of feet moving closer and closer. It was all too familiar.

He felt a hand close on his wrist, and saw Frankie's horrified face.

"We've got to move!" She was saying, "We've got to-"

But the crowd buckled once more, bodies slamming into theirs, and she was swept away. He was pushed backwards, his back hit a brick wall and all the breath was jolted out of him. For a brief second he spotted Quirrell and Elona about ten metres away and he struggled forwards.

Something fiercely hot and sharp hit him squarely in the chest, and he lurched backwards. Desperate hands clung to the back of his coat. He fell, along with several around him. Fingers clawed at his hair as someone fought to stand up. His head span. Bile rose in his throat.

The noise was deafeaning. The chaos drummed at his brain. He kicked out, and a limp body rolled off of his legs. He stood. A metallic taste had filled his mouth. He brought his hand to his lips, and when he pulled his fingers away they were crimson and dripping with blood.

The cloaked figures were close now – so close that he might have been able to make out their faces beneath their hoods if he had been looking. Someone next to was hit by a spell and they flew several feet into the air before crashing into the ground. A jet of white hot, green light shot past, narrowly missing his ear.

He felt dizzy, his insides twisting nauseously, the blood pounding in his head. His limbs felt as heavy as lead and like they were firmly rooted to the ground, but at the same time he could feel his body staggering forwards.

And he slowly raised his wand.

_No! Stop it!_ Inside he was screaming, struggling with himself, fighting. It felt like he was going to split clean in two, agony shooting from the centre of his forehead, down his throat and into the pit of his stomach, burning.

But he couldn't control himself. He wanted to hurt someone. He wanted to maim and torture and kill. It was like he _needed_ it. He needed the destruction and the cruelty. It was him and he was it.

_Crucio!_

His throat was constricting. He was drowning.

_Crucio! _

The cursing was being screamed by some other being. It was ripping its way out of his mouth. It was inside his very brain.

_CRUCIO!_

He could feel rough hands grabbing him. A face swam before him. Someone was shouting, but he couldn't make out the words. He was sinking down, desperately trying to drag himself back into the world of noise and chaos and fire. Something thick and heavy was cutting into his skin. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. He couldn't hear. He couldn't feel. There was nothing.


	12. Confrontation

Oh gosh, how long has it been? Over a month? And all you get is my second shortest chapter yet. I am very sorry for the amount of time it takes me to update. If I'm honest, I haven't been into Harry Potter that much recently. I'm a bit of a fandom whore – all over Death Note and The Hunger Games right now. But never fear! I am a HP nerd at heart and I am not going to abandon this fic. Promise.

****IMPORTANT**** I have my AS level exams coming up, and in order to get the grades I want I actually need to focus and study. So this will be the last update before the summer. Guess you could call it a hiatus. I am very sorry but that is the way it is. Thank you for your patience. ****END****

Anyway, please review. Hope you like this chapter. Best wishes.

**Chapter 12 – Confrontation**

He could smell something strong and vile. It filled his nostrils and stung the back of his throat. There was something unnatural and foul about it that made him want to gag. But his throat felt constricted and his tongue swollen and heavy. His limbs were weighed down too, and a large pressure pushed against his torso. He became more and more aware of it every time he took a breath. His lungs fought to expand. When he sucked air in through his nostrils and mouth it became viscous and tangy.

It grew worse. The weight on his chest increased. It crushed him. Cold. Unyielding. Painful. He tried to push against it. He struggled, attempting to rock to the side, escape it. His eyes, which before had felt heavy and like they'd been sealed shut, opened a fraction. White light entered his brain. Piercing. Blinding.

_He's coming round someone sedate his lungs need to careful just administer the curse was stop it sedate him._

It was wrong. The words made no sense. There was too much noise. It hurt.

The weight was lifted from him suddenly. Freezing air rushed into his nose, his mouth, his throat. It seeped into his lungs and brain. Numbing him. His eyes slid shut. The darkness was welcome.

...

Tom woke to the sound of clanking metal and wheels rolling over hard floor. He opened his eyes. White ceiling. White wall. Blue curtains on a metal rail.

He was lying on a bed under light, slightly stiff sheets. Some kind of thick bands crossed his wrists, chest and thighs, stopping him from moving. A dry, metallic taste filled his mouth, but it was tolerable.

"Tom?" A low, familiar voice cut across the air.

He turned his head to the side, the sudden movement making him dizzy, blurring his vision momentarily. Quirrell was sitting on a chair several feet away.

"Tom?" he repeated, looking cautious, "Are you awake?"

He opened his mouth and tried to answer, but as his lips formed the words no sound came out other than a grating murmur.

Quirrell moved closer, dragging the chair with him.

"Where am I?" he managed to say eventually, though his voice was hoarse and it sounded more like 'whurr'mm ah?'

"St Mungo's," Quirrell answered.

Tom nodded. That figured.

"What ha..." he struggled to say the words, "What happened?"

"We were in Diagon Alley," Quirrell said quietly, frowning down at his interlocked hands, "I guess you remember that. And there was a... uh, riot, of sorts. A group of dark wizards they say. Came and attacked everyone. You got hit by a curse and..."

He trailed off. Tom looked at him, noticing now the dark circles under his eyes and a long scratch across his jaw, as though he'd been cut there in the past few days.

"You've been here for a few days," he added, "It's the 4th of January."

"Have you been here the whole time?" Tom asked, his voice stronger now.

"Don't flatter yourself," Quirrell said with a hollow laugh, "I arrived a few hours ago. Was here for a while on the 2nd. No visitors were allowed on the first day. Vanessa and Elona came up yesterday. They said you were unconscious the whole time."

He nodded a little. It made sense. He could remember being in Diagon Alley. He could remember all the cloaked wizards approaching and the panic of the crowd. But that was it. Everything following was blank.

"And, uh, why... why am I strapped down?" he asked rather hesitantly.

"Well... on the second day, while the Healers were attending to you," Quirrell spoke quietly, and Tom had to strain to hear him, "You kept... trying to attack them..."

He trailed off, looking away, his forehead creased by a slight frown.

Tom stared at him blankly, then felt his stomach drop suddenly.

"Did I h-h-hurt anyone?" he croaked.

The vile taste in his mouth grew with every second that Quirrell did not answer.

"Not seriously," he finally said, "The sedative charms were taking effect. But you used quite a bit of non-verbal magic. Wandless too. It just kind of... exploded out of you. But everyone is okay, no lasting damage done," he added hastily.

Tom sank back into the pillows, eyes closed. Well that was it then. Everything he'd fought hard to keep locked inside was out in the open. He had strived to repress it all, to stop anything like this ever happening. But he'd lost control. He had _attacked_ people. Now they'd all know him for what he was.

"Tom?" Hesitant fingers reached out and pressed against his shoulder.

Shocked at the sudden contact, his eyes snapped open.

Quirrell flinched visibly, quickly withdrawing his hand. He tried to cover the movement up by going to scratch his neck, but Tom had seen, and they both knew.

He looked away, staring up at the ceiling.

So now even the one person he'd grown to consider his true friend was scared of him. Quirinus Quirrell, who had come to him all those months ago in the Leaky Cauldron, helped him start up his life and then stuck by him afterwards, including him, talking with him, laughing with him, not leaving after the incident with Bellatrix Black. And he had ruined it.

That is what they'd all think of him now – Quirrell and the Brights, Frankie too. He was dangerous. He was unstable. Someone to be careful around. Someone who was not to be trusted. Someone who had to be physically restrained in a hospital so he couldn't hurt people.

He was vaguely aware that several people were talking nearby, but who they were and whether they were talking to him he could not say. Unable to tear his eyes from the empty white of the ceiling, he felt the nausea spread from the pits of his stomach into his throat and brain. A dull throbbing had started up just behind his eyes and in his chest. He could feel his pulse drumming in his ears.

_What have I done?_

...

"Riddle, for God's sake, will you just speak to me!"

Icy blue eyes met dark ones.

Silence.

Quirrell let out an exasperated groan.

"Are you incapable of speech now? Is that it?"

"Not at all," Tom said, his voice low and still slightly hoarse.

"Then why are you refusing to talk?"

Pause.

"I am not refusing to talk. I just have nothing to say."

Silence. Again.

A young Healer walked in and seemed to double-take at the cold atmosphere in the room. She nodded at the two young men, picked up the files she had come for, and left somewhat hastily. As her lime green robes swished round the doorpost, Quirrell turned his eyes back to the bed.

Several minutes passed before he realised, not for the first time, that staring would not induce any kind of response.

"You know what?" he snapped, getting to his feet, "I give up. You have been here a week, Tom. A _week_. And I know you're still recuperating, but you really need to get a grip! There were a lot of victims in that attack. A lot of them are worse off than you. Some people _died_, Tom. And whatever effect that curse – that whole event – had on you, you really need to just get on with it!"

Tom just looked at him. His expression appeared disinterested. Blank. Cold.

"Vanessa says you're in shock," Quirrell continued vehemently, "I say that's bullshit. Frankie says you're sulking. I'd say that's a hell of a lot closer to the truth. Something happened. You reacted badly to it. Fair enough. But sitting there in silence, shutting everyone out, that's not going to help you.

"Because you need help, Tom. I see it when I look at your face. There is something eating away at you. You are distant most of the time. Sometimes you space out for several minutes. Sometimes you look like you're about to freak out for no apparent reason. And you know what? I haven't said anything. Because I figured one day you might trust me enough to explain that you witnessed some horrible event as a child or something. I guess you think you're above that."

"I don't want your pity," Tom said coldly.

"You think I'm doing this out of pity?" he retorted fiercely, "Is that it? Well, I'm sorry to inform you that you are very much mistaken. Did you think I was here because I felt _sorry_ for you? Poor Tom Riddle, got hit by a nasty curse and is recovering in St Mungo's, let's go shower him with comfort and sympathy. Wow, Tom, that's pretty narcissistic. You know, maybe I'm here because I was genuinely worried about you. Maybe I'm here because I considered you my friend."

Quirrell took a step backwards, shaking his head. "But seeing as you're superior to that, I guess I'll be going. I hope something gives you a kick up the arse and you realise that you've got to sort this out. Goodness knows I've tried. Maybe I'll see you around."

And he left.

Tom stared after him, jaw clenched. He felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. Hard.

If he thought his walls were crumbling before, they were definitely falling to pieces around him now. Everything he'd done – his whole facade – had never even worked in the first place. If Quirrell had known the whole time that there was something wrong with him, then it was almost certain that other people had. He had thought that he'd exercised some control over himself, but he had failed. He couldn't do this. Why had he even tried in the first place? Voldemort was too dominant, too-

But no. Was it really about that? Was it?

'_Did you think I was here because I felt sorry_ _for you?'_ Those words brought back memories of something else that had been uttered months ago. '_That's really why I've been talking to him... I just feel sorry for him.'_ Was that a lie? One of them had to be.

'_Maybe I'm here because I considered you my friend.' _Considered. Past tense.

He'd really fucked it up now, hadn't he?

Tom sunk back on the pillows, turning onto his side, facing the wall. The emptiness of it did not help to numb him like it had done before.

He reached up to rub his eyes, and felt wetness. Tears clung to his eyelashes and pooled at the corners of his eyes. His vision blurred.

He hurt. Everything hurt. His head. His stomach. His lungs felt like they were constricted. His chest. His heart hurt.

_That's funny,_ a voice whispered, somewhere at the back of his conscious mind, _I would have thought you didn't have one._


End file.
